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LITTLE   NOVELS   OF    ITALY 


BOOKS   BY    MAURICE    HEWLETT 

Published  by  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

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LITTLE    NOVELS    OF 
ITALY 


BY 


MAURICE   HEWLETT 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  FOREST  LOVERS,"  "  PAN  AND  THE  YOUNG 
SHEPHERD,"  "EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY,"  ETC. 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
NEW    YORK      :      :      :      :      1910 


Copyright,  1890, 
By  MAURICE  HEWLETT. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  September,  1899.       Reprinted  November, 
1899  ;  October,  1901  ;  November,  1906. 


So 

HIS    FRIEND 

AND 

ITALY'S 
MAJOR-GENERAL  JOSEPH  BONUS,  R.E. 

THE  AUTHOR 
DEDICATES  HIS   BOOK 


CONTENTS 


MADONNA   OF  THE   PEACH-TREE      . 
IPPOLITA   IN  THE   HILLS       . 
THE   DUCHESS   OF   NONA      . 
MESSER  CINO   AND   THE   LIVE   COAL 
THE  JUDGMENT   OF   BORSO 


PAGE 
I 

67 

137 

225 
254 


LITTLE   NOVELS  OF    ITALY 

MADONNA  OF  THE  PEACH-TREE 


VANNA    IS    BID    FOR 

Not  easily  would  you  have  found  a  girl  more 
winning  in  a  tender  sort  than  Giovanna  Scarpa 
of  Verona  at  one  and  twenty,  fair-haired  and 
flushed,  delicately  shaped,  tall  and  pliant,  as  she 
then  was.  She  had  to  suffer  her  hours  of  ill 
report,  but  passes  for  near  a  saint  now,  in  conse- 
quence of  certain  miracles  and  theophanies  done 
on  her  account,  which  it  is  my  business  to  declare ; 
before  those  she  was  considered  (if  at  all)  as  a  girl 
who  would  certainly  have  been  married  three 
years  ago  if  dowries  had  not  been  of  moment  in 
the  matter.  In  a  city  of  maids  as  pretty  as  they 
are  modest  —  which  no  one  will  deny  Verona  to 
be  —  there  may  have  been  some  whose  charms  in 
either  kind  were  equal  to  hers,  while  their  estate 
was  better  in  accord  ;  but  the  speculation  is  idle. 
Giovanna,  flower  in  the  face  as  she  was,  fit  to  be 
nosegay  on  any  hearth,  posy  for  any  man's  breast, 
sprang  in  a  very  lowly  soil.  Like  a  blossoming 
reed  she  shot  up  to  her  inches  by  Adige,  and  one 
forgot  the  muddy  bed  wondering  at  the  slim 
grace  of  the  shaft  with  its  crown  of  yellow  atop. 


8  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

Her  hair  waved  about  her  like  a  flag ;  she  should 
have  been  planted  in  a  castle ;  instead,  Giovanna 
the  stately  calm,  with  her  billowing  line,  staid 
lips,  and  candid  grey  eyes,  was  to  be  seen  on  her 
knees  by  the  green  water  most  days  of  the  week. 
Bare-armed,  splashed  to  the  neck,  bare-headed,  out- 
at-heels,  she  rinsed  and  pommelled,  wrung  and 
dipped  again,  laughed,  chattered,  flung  her  hair 
to  the  wind,  her  sweat  to  the  water,  in  line  with 
a  dozen  other  women  below  the  Ponte  Navi ;  and 
if  no  one  thought  any  the  worse  of  her,  none,  un- 
happily, thought  any  the  better  —  at  least  in  the 
way  of  marriage.  It  is  probable  that  no  one 
thought  of  her  at  all.  Giovanna  was  a  beauty 
and  a  very  good  girl ;  but  she  was  a  washerwoman 
for  all  that,  whose  toil  fed  seven  mouths. 

Her  father  was  Don  Urbano,  curate  of  Santa 
Toscana  across  the  water.  This  may  very  easily 
sound  worse  than  it  is.  In  Don  Urbano's  day, 
though  a  priest  might  not  marry,  he  might  have  a 
wife  —  a  faithful,  diligent  companion,  that  is  —  to 
seethe  his  polenta,  air  his  linen,  and  rear  his 
children.  The  Church  winked  at  her,  and  so 
continued  until  the  Jesuits  came  to  teach  that 
winking  was  unbecoming.  But  when  Can  Grande 
II.  lorded  in  Verona  the  Jesuits  did  not,  and  Don 
Urbano,  good,  easy  man,  cared  not  who  winked  at 
his  wife.  She  gave  him  six  children  before  she 
died  of  the  seventh,  of  whom  the  eldest  was  Gio- 
vanna, and  the  others,  in  an  orderly  chain  dimin- 
ishing punctually  by  a  year,  ran  down  to  Ferran- 
tino,  a  tattered,  shock-headed  rascal  of  more  inches 
than  grace.  Last  of  all  the  good  drudge,  who  had 
borne  these  and  many  other  burdens  for  her  mas- 


MADONNA  OF  THE   PEACH-TREE  3 

ter,  died  also.  Don  Urbano  was  never  tired  of 
saying  how  providential  it  was  that  she  had  held 
off  her  demise  until  Giovanna  was  old  enough  to 
take  her  place.  The  curate  was  fat  and  lazy, 
very  much  interested  in  himself ;  his  stipend 
barely  paid  his  shot  at  the  "  Fiore  del  Marinajo," 
under  whose  green  bush  he  was  mostly  to  be 
seen.  Vanna  had  to  roll  up  her  sleeves,  bend  her 
straight  young  back,  and  knee  the  board  by  the 
Ponte  Navi.  I  have  no  doubt  it  did  her  good ; 
the  work  is  healthy,  the  air,  the  sun,  the  water- 
spray,  kissed  her  beauty  ripe;  but  she  got  no  hus- 
band because  she  could  save  no  dowry.  Every- 
thing went  to  stay  the  seven  crying  mouths. 

Then,  on  a  day  when  half  her  twenty-first  year 
had  run  after  the  others,  old  Baldassare  Dardi- 
cozzo  stayed  on  the  bridge  to  rest  from  the  bur- 
den of  his  pack  —  on  a  breezy  March  morning 
when  the  dust  filled  his  eyes  and  the  wind  emp- 
tied him  of  breath.  Baldassare  had  little  enough 
to  spare  as  it  was.  So  he  dropped  his  load  in 
the  angle  of  the  bridge,  with  a  smothered  "  Acci- 
dente ! "  or  some  such,  and  leaned  to  watch  the 
swollen  water  buffeted  crosswise  by  the  gusts,  or 
how  the  little  mills  amid-stream  dipped  as  they 
swam  breasting  the  waves.  In  so  doing  he  be- 
came aware,  in  quite  a  peculiar  way,  of  Vanna 
Scarpa. 

Baldassare  was  old,  red-eyed,  stiff  in  the  back. 
Possibly  he  was  rheumatic,  certainly  he  was 
grumpy.  He  had  a  long  slit  mouth  which  played 
him  a  cruel  trick ;  for  by  nature  it  smiled  when 
by  nature  he  was  most  melancholy.  Smile  it 
would  and  did,  however  cut-throat  he  felt :  if  you 


4  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

wanted  to  see  him  grin  from  ear  to  ear  you  would 
wait  till  he  had  had  an  ill  day's  market.  Then, 
while  sighs,  curses,  invocations  of  the  saints,  or 
open  hints  to  the  devil  came  roaring  from  him, 
that  hilarious  mouth  of  his  invited  you  to  share 
delights.  You  had  needs  laugh  with  him,  and  he, 
cursing  high  and  low,  beamed  all  over  his  face. 
"  To  make  Baldassare  laugh "  became  a  stock 
periphrasis  for  the  supreme  degree  of  tragedy 
among  his  neighbours.  About  this  traitor  mouth 
of  his  he  had  a  dew  of  scrubby  beard,  silvered 
black ;  he  had  bushy  eyebrows,  hands  and  arms 
covered  with  a  black  pelt:  he  was  a  very  hairy 
man.  Also  he  was  a  very  warm  man,  as  every- 
body knew,  with  a  hoard  of  florins  under  the  flags 
of  his  old-clothes  shop  in  the  Via  Stella. 

Having  spat  into  the  water  many  times,  rubbed 
his  hands,  mopped  his  head,  and  cursed  most 
things  under  heaven  and  some  in  it,  Master  Bal- 
dassare found  himself  watching  the  laundresses 
on  the  shore.  They  were  the  usual  shrill,  shrewd, 
and  laughing  line  —  the  trade  seems  to  induce 
high  mirth  —  and  as  such  no  bait  for  the  old 
merchant  by  ordinary ;  but  just  now  the  sun  and 
breeze  together  made  a  bright  patch  of  them,  set 
them  at  a  provoking  flutter.  Baldassare,  prickly 
with  dust,  found  them  like  their  own  cool  linen 
hung  out  to  dance  itself  dry  in  the  wind.  Most 
of  all  he  noticed  Vanna,  whom  he  knew  well 
enough,  because  when  she  knelt  upright  she  was 
taller  and  more  wayward  than  the  rest,  and  be- 
cause the  wind  made  so  plain  the  pretty  figure 
she  had.  She  was  very  industrious,  but  no  less 
full  of  talk :  there  seemed  so  much  to  say !     The 


MADONNA  OF  THE   PEACH-TREE  5 

pauses  were  frequent  in  which  she  straightened 
herself  from  the  hips  and  turned  to  thrust  chin 
and  voice  into  the  debate.  You  saw  then  the 
sharp  angle,  the  fine  line  of  light  along  that 
raised  chin,  the  charming  turn  of  the  neck,  her 
free  young  shoulders  and  shapely  head ;  also  you 
marked  her  lively  tones  of  ci  and  si,  and  how 
her  shaking  finger  drove  them  home.  The  wind 
would  catch  her  yellow  hair  sometimes  and  wind 
it  across  her  bosom  like  a  scarf ;  or  it  streamed 
sideways  like  a  long  pennon ;  or,  being  caught  by 
a  gust  from  below,  sprayed  out  like  a  cloud  of 
litten  gold.  Vanna  always  joined  in  the  laugh  at 
her  mishap,  tossed  her  tresses  back,  pinned  them 
up  (both  hands  at  the  business) ;  and  then,  with 
square  shoulders  and  elbows  stiff  as  rods,  set  to 
working  the  dirt  out  of  Don  Urbano's  surplice. 
Baldassare  brooded,  chewing  straws.  What  a 
clear  colour  that  girl  had,  to  be  sure !  What  a 
lissom  rascal  it  was !  A  fine  long  girl  like  that 
should  be  married ;  by  all  accounts  she  would 
make  a  man  a  good  wife.  If  he  were  a  dozen 
years  the  better  of  four  and  fifty  he  might  — 
Then  came  a  shrug,  and  a  "  Ma ! "  to  conclude  in 
true  Veronese  Baldassare's  ruminations.  Shrug 
and  explosion  signalled  two  stark  facts:  Baldas- 
sare was  fifty-four,  and  Vanna  had  no  portion. 

Yet  he  remained  watching  on  the  bridge,  his 
chin  buried  in  his  knotty  hands,  his  little  eyes 
blinking  under  stress  of  the  inner  fire  he  had. 
So  it  befell  that  La  Testolina  saw  him,  and  said 
something  shrill  and  saucy  to  her  neighbour. 
The  wind  tossed  him  the  tone  but  not  the  sense. 
He  saw  the  joke  run  crackling  down  the  line,  all 


6  LITTLE  NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

heads  look  brightly  up.  The  joke  caught  fire; 
he  saw  the  sun-gleam  on  a  dozen  perfect  sets  of 
teeth.  Vanna's  head  was  up  with  the  rest,  sooner 
up  and  the  sooner  down.  Even  from  that  height 
the  little  twinkling  beacons  from  the  bridge  shot 
her  through.  He  saw  her  colour  deepen,  head 
droop ;  she  was  busy  long  before  the  others  had 
wrung  their  joke  dry.  "  Soul  of  a  cat !  "  grunted 
Baldassare  between  his  teeth,  "  what  a  rosy  bag- 
gage it  is!"  He  waited  a  little  longer,  then  delib- 
erately passed  the  bridge,  rounded  the  pillar  by 
the  steps,  and  went  down  to  the  women  like  a 
man  who  has  made  up  his  mind.  Lizabetta  of 
the  roving  eye  caught  the  first  hint  of  his  shadow. 
Her  elbow  to  Nonna's  ribs,  Nonna's  "  Pst ! "  in 
Nina's  ear,  spread  the  news.  Vanna's  cheeks 
flew  the  flag. 

"  Buon'  giorno,  Ser  Baldassare ! "  shrilled  La 
Testolina,  plump  and  black-eyed  leader  of  mis- 
chief. 

"  Giorno,  giorno,  La  Testolina,"  growled  the 
old  man. 

Vanna,  very  busy,  grew  as  red  as  a  rose.  The 
others  knelt  back  on  their  heels ;  compliments  of  a 
homely  sort  flew  about,  sped  on  by  flashing  teeth. 
Baldassare's  own  were  black  as  old  channel-posts 
in  the  lagoon,  but  in  tongue-work  he  gave  as 
sharp  as  he  got.  Then  a  wicked  wind  blew 
Vanna's  hair  like  a  whip  across  her  throat,  fit  to 
strangle  her.  She  had  to  face  the  day.  Bal- 
dassare pondered  her  straight  young  back. 

"  When  Vanna's  a  nun  she'll  have  no  more 
trouble  with  her  hair,"  quoth  La  Testolina,  match- 
maker by  race. 


MADONNA  OF  THE   PEACH-TREE  7 

"  When  Vanna's  a  nun  the  river  will  be  dry," 
said  Vanna  from  between  her  elbows. 

"  When  Vanna's  a  nun  the  river,  on  the  contrary, 
will  be  in  flood."     This  from  Baldassare. 

"  Hey !  what's  this  ? "  Caterina  cried ;  and 
Nonna  pinched  her  arm. 

"  Adige  will  go  crying  that  she  comes  no  more 
to  dip  her  arms,"  said  the  old  man,  with  the 
utmost  gravity  and  a  broad  grin.  The  women 
screamed  their  delight,  slapped  their  knees,  or 
raised  witnessing  hands  to  heaven ;  La  Testolina 
caught  Vanna  round  the  waist  and  gave  her  a  re- 
sounding kiss. 

"  Compliments,  my  little  Vanna,  compliments ! " 
Her  voice  pealed  like  a  trumpet. 

"  Vi  ringrazio,  signore,"  said  Vanna  under  her 
breath,  and  La  Testolina  held  up  a  tress  of  her 
long  hair  to  the  light. 

"  When  Vanna's  a  nun  you  would  bid  for  that, 
eh,  Baldassare  ? " 

"  I  will  bid  for  whatever  she  will  sell  me,"  says 
he,  with  a  blink.  Whereupon  the  matchmaker 
made  no  more  music.  The  scent  was  too  hot  for 
that. 

Yet  for  all  his  adventuring  he  got  little  reward  ; 
she  turned  him  no  more  than  the  round  of  her 
cheek.  Vanna  never  stayed  her  work,  and  he, 
ordinarily  a  silent  man,  paid  no  more  compli- 
ments —  yet  ceased  not  to  look. 

Going  up  the  street  at  dinner-time,  he  made 
his  bid.  He  limped  by  the  tall  girl's  side  without 
speech  from  either ;  but  at  the  door  he  looked  up 
queerly  at  her  and  pinched  her  ear. 

"  Go  in  and  feed  the  youngsters,  my  chuck," 


8  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

said  he ;  "I  know  where  to  meet  Don  Urbano, 
and  please  Madonna  you  shall  feed  your  own 
before  long." 

"  Yes,  Ser  Baldassare,"  says  pretty  Vanna  in  a 
twitter. 

The  conference  between  the  high  contracting 
parties  was  wordy,  bristled  with  the  gesticulations 
of  two  pair  of  hands,  and  was  commented  on  by 
all  the  guests  in  the  "  Fiore  del  Marinajo."  The 
girl,  said  Don  Urbano,  was  the  very  pride  of  his 
eye,  prop  of  his  failing  years,  a  little  mother  to 
the  children.  She  had  had  a  most  pious  bringing- 
up,  never  missed  the  Rosary,  knew  the  Little 
Hours  of  the  Virgin,  could  do  sums  with  notches 
in  a  stick,  market  like  a  Jew's  housekeeper,  sew 
like  a  nun,  and  make  a  stew  against  any  wife  in 
the  contrada.  Dowry,  dowry !  What  did  such 
a  girl  as  that  want  with  a  dowry  ?  She  was  her 
own  dowry,  by  Bacchus  the  Thracian.  Look  at 
the  shape  of  her  —  was  that  not  a  dowry?  The 
work  she  could  do,  the  pair  of  shoulders,  the 
deep  chest,  the  long  legs  she  had  —  pick  your 
dowry  there,  my  friends !  A  young  woman  of  her 
sort  carried  her  dowry  on  her  back,  in  her  two 
hands,  in  her  mouth  —  ah !  and  in  what  she  could 
put  into  yours,  by  our  Lord.  Rather,  it  should  be 
the  other  way.  What,  now,  was  Ser  Baldassare 
prepared  to  lay  out  upon  such  a  piece  of  goods  ? 
Baldassare  shivered,  grinned  fearfully,  and  shook 
his  head  many  times.  Money  was  money ;  it  was 
limited ;  it  bore  its  value  in  plain  figures  upon  its 
face :  you  knew  where  you  were  with  money. 
But  you  could  get  wives  cheaper  than  ducats, 
and  find  them  cheaper  value,  soul  of  a  cat !     Be- 


MADONNA   OF  THE  PEACH-TREE  9 

sides,  what  was  he  ?  A  poor  pedlar,  by  his  faith ! 
At  this  he  spread  out  his  arms  and  dropped  them 
with  a  flop  upon  his  knees.  The  priest  sat  back 
in  his  chair  and  cast  appealing  looks  at  the 
rafters ;  the  company  chuckled,  nudged  each 
other,  guffawed.  Baldassare  was  made  to  feel 
that  he  had  over-coloured  his  case.  True,  he 
admitted,  he  had  a  roof  over  his  head,  shared 
fortune  with  the  rats  in  that.  But  look  at  the 
thing  reasonably,  comrades.  Vanna  would  make 
another  to  keep ;  a  girl  of  her  inches  must  be  an 
eater,  body  of  a  dog !  Had  his  reverence  thought 
of  that?  His  reverence  made  a  supreme  effort, 
held  up  one  pudgy  forefinger,  and  with  the  other 
marked  off  two  joints  of  it.  "  Of  mortadella  so 
much,"  he  said;  "of  polenta  so  much"  —  and  he 
shut  one  fist;  "of  pasta  so  much"  —  and  he 
coupled  the  two  fists;  "and  of  wine,  by  the  soul 
of  the  world,  not  enough  to  drown  a  flea !  I 
tell  you,  Baldassare,"  he  said  finally,  emboldened 
by  the  merchant's  growing  doubt  —  "I  tell  you 
that  you  ask  of  me  a  treasure  which  I  would 
not  part  with  for  a  cardinal's  hat.  No  indeed ! 
Not  to  be  Bishop  of  Verona,  throned  and  purfled 
on  Can  Grande's  right  hand,  will  I  consent  to 
traffic  my  Vanna.  Eh,  sangue  di  Sangue,  because 
I  am  a  man  of  the  Church  must  I  cease  to  be  a 
man  of  bowels,  to  have  a  yearning,  a  tender  spot 
here  ?  "  He  prodded  his  cushioned  ribs.  "  Go 
you,  Ser  Baldassare  Dardicozzo,"  he  cried,  rising 
grandly  in  his  chair  —  "go  you;  you  have  mis- 
taken your  man.  The  father  stands  up  superb 
in  the  curate's  cassock,  and  points  the  door  to  the 
chafferer  of  virgins  ! " 


io  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

The  tavern-room,  on  Don  Urbano's  side  to  a 
man,  beat  the  tables  with  their  glasses ;  Baldas- 
sare  had  to  surrender  at  discretion.  The  bargain, 
finally  struck,  was  written  out  by  an  obliging 
notary  on  the  scoring-slate.  In  the  name  of  the 
holy  and  undivided  Trinity  it  was  declared  to  all 
men  living  and  to  be  born,  that  Baldassare  Dardi- 
cozzo,  merchant  of  Verona,  was  obliged  to  pay 
to  the  reverend  father  in  God,  Urbano,  curate  of 
Santa  Toscana  in  the  Borgo  San  Giorgio,  the  sum 
of  sixty  florins  Veronese  and  two  barrels  of  wine 
of  Val  Pulicella,  under  condition  that  if  within 
thirty  days  from  those  presents  he  did  not  lead  in 
marriage  Giovanna,  daughter  of  the  said  reverend, 
he  should  be  bound  to  pay  the  sum  of  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty  florins  Veronese,  and  four  barrels 
of  wine  of  Val  Pulicella. 

The  notary  executed  a  monstrous  flourish  at 
the  bottom  —  a  foliated  cross  rising  out  of  steps. 
On  the  last  step  he  wrote  his  own  name,  Bartolo 
de  Thomasinis ;  and  then  Baldassare,  smiling  as 
he  should,  but  feeling  as  he  should  not,  stuck  his 
seal  upon  the  swimming  wax,  and  made  a  cross 
with  the  stile  like  the  foundations  of  a  spider's 
web. 

The  affair  was  thus  concluded ;  before  the 
thirty  days  were  up  Vanna  was  taken  to  church 
by  her  father,  and  taken  from  it  by  her  new  mas- 
ter. Within  a  week  she  appeared  at  the  door- 
way of  Baldassare's  little  shop,  very  pretty,  very 
sedate,  quite  the  housewife  —  to  sit  there  sewing 
and  singing  to  herself  from  grey  dawn  to  grey 
dusk. 


II 

TERTIUM  QUID 

A  year  passed,  two  years  passed.  Vanna  was 
three  and  twenty,  no  more  round  but  no  less 
blooming  in  face  and  figure ;  still  a  reedy,  golden- 
haired  girl.  But  Baldassare  was  fifty-seven,  and 
there  was  no  sign  of  issue.  The  neighbours,  who 
had  nudged  each  other  at  one  season,  whose  heads 
had  wagged  as  their  winks  flew  about,  now  ac- 
cepted the  sterile  mating  as  of  the  order  of  things. 
Pretty  Vanna,  mother  as  she  had  been  to  her 
brothers  and  sisters,  was  to  be  a  mother  no  more. 
There  was  talk  of  May  and  December.  Baldas- 
sare was  advised  to  lock  up  other  treasure  beside 
his  florins;  some,  indeed,  of  the  opposite  camp 
gave  hints  none  too  honest  to  the  forlorn  young 
wife.  The  Piazza  Sant'  Anastasia  at  the  falling- 
in  of  the  day,  for  instance.  Thus  they  put  it. 
All  girls  —  and  what  else  was  Vanna,  a  wife  in 
name  ?  —  walked  there  arm  in  arm.  Others 
walked  there  also,  she  must  know.  By-and-by 
some  pretty  lad,  an  archer,  perhaps,  from  the 
palace,  some  roistering  blade  of  a  gentleman's 
lackey,  a  friar  or  twinkling  monk  out  for  a  frolic, 
came  along  with  an  "  Eh,  la  bellina ! "  and  then 
there  was  another  arm  at  work.  So,  for  one, 
whispered  La  Testolina,  dipping  a  head  full  of 

ii 


12  LITTLE  NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

confidence  and  mystery  close  to  Vanna's  as  the 
girl  sat  working  out  the  summer  twilight.  The 
Via  Stella  was  narrow  and  gloomy.  The  tall 
houses  nearly  met  in  that  close  way.  Looking 
up  you  saw  the  two  jagged  edges  of  the  eaves, 
like  great  tattered  wings  spread  towards  each 
other.  When  the  green  sky  of  evening  deepened 
to  blue,  and  blue  grew  violet,  these  shadowing 
wings  were  always  in  advance,  more  densely  dark. 
There  it  was  that  Vanna  worked  incessantly, 
sewing  seam  after  seam,  patching,  braiding,  and 
fitting  the  pieces.  By  no  chance  at  all  did  a  hint 
of  the  sun  fall  about  her;  yet  she  always  sang 
softly  to  herself,  always  wore  her  pretty  fresh 
colours,  and  still  showed  the  gold  sheen  in  her 
yellow  hair.  Her  hair  was  put  up  now,  pulled 
smoothly  back  over  her  temples ;  she  spoke  in  a 
low,  sober,  measured  voice,  and  to  La  Testolina's 
sly  suggestions  responded  with  a  little  blush,  a 
little  shake  of  the  head,  and  a  very  little  sigh. 
"  Ser  Baldassare  is  good  to  me,"  she  would  say; 
"would  you  have  me  do  him  a  wrong?  Last 
Friday  he  gave  me  a  silver  piece  to  spend  in 
whatsoever  I  chose.  I  bought  a  little  holy-water 
stoup  with  a  Gesulino  upon  it,  bowered  in  roses. 
On  Sunday  morning  he  patted  my  cheek  and 
called  me  a  good  girl.  To  say  nothing  of  the 
many  times  he  has  pinched  my  ear,  all  this  was 
very  kind,  as  you  must  see.  With  what  do  you 
ask  me  to  reward  him  ?  Fie !  "  La  Testolina 
snorted,  and  shrugged  herself  away.  Vanna 
went  on  with  her  sewing  and  her  little  song  — 

"  Giovanottin,  che  te  ne  vai  di  fuora, 
Stattene  allegro,  e  cosi  vo'  far  io. 


MADONNA  OF  THE   PEACH-TREE  13 

Se  ti  trovassi  qualche  dama  nuova, 
L'ha  da  saper  che  tua  dama  son  io." 

So  sang  she,  innocently  enough,  whose  sweet- 
hearting  went  no  farther  than  her  artless  lips. 
There  was  not  a  spice  of  mischief  in  the  girl. 
What  she  had  told  La  Testolina  had  been  no 
more  than  the  truth :  Master  Baldassare  was 
good  to  her — better  than  you  would  have  believed 
possible  in  such  a  crabbed  old  stub  of  a  man.  He 
was  more  of  a  father  to  her  than  ever  Don  Urbano 
had  been  to  anything  save  his  own  belly;  but  it 
was  incontestable  that  he  was  not  father  to  any- 
thing else.  That  alone  might  have  been  a  griev- 
ance for  Vanna,  but  there  is  no  evidence  that  it 
was.  Baldassare  was  by  nature  gruff,  by  habit 
close-fisted :  like  all  such  men,  the  more  he  felt 
the  deeper  he  hoarded  the  thought  under  his  ribs. 
The  most  he  would  venture  would  be  a  hand  on 
her  hair  and  a  grunt  when  she  did  well ;  so  sure 
as  she  looked  up  gratefully  at  him  the  old  man 
drew  off,  with  puckered  brows  and  jaws  working 
together.  He  may  have  been  ashamed  of  his 
weakness;  it  is  dead  certain  that  no  one  in 
Verona,  least  of  all  Vanna  herself,  suspected 
him  of  any  affection  for  his  young  wife.  Mostly 
he  was  silent ;  thus  she  became  silent  too  when- 
ever he  was  in  the  house.  This  was  against 
nature,  for  by  ordinary  her  little  songs  bubbled 
from  her  like  a  bird's.  But  to  see  him  so  glum 
and  staring  within  doors  awed  her:  she  set  a 
finger  to  her  lips  as  she  felt  the  tune  on  her 
tongue,  and  went  about  her  business  mute. 
Baldassare  would  go  abroad,  stooping  under  his 
pack :  she  took  her  seat  at  the  shop-door,  threaded 


14  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

her  needle,  her  fingers  flew  and  her  fancy  with 
them.  The  spring  of  her  music  was  touched, 
and  all  the  neighbours  grew  to  listen  for  the 
gentle  cadences  she  made. 

So  passed  a  year,  so  two  years  passed.  Vanna 
was  twenty-three,  looking  less,  when  along  there 
came  one  morning  a  tall  young  friar,  a  Carmelite, 
by  name  Fra  Battista,  with  a  pair  of  brown  dove's 
eyes  in  his  smooth  face.  These  he  lifted  towards 
Vanna's  with  an  air  so  timid  and  so  penetrating, 
so  delicate  and  hardy  at  once,  that  when  he  was 
gone  it  was  to  leave  her  with  the  falter  of  a  verse 
in  her  mouth,  two  hot  cheeks,  and  a  quicker  heart. 

This  Fra  Battista,  by  birth  a  Bergamask,  ac- 
credited to  the  convent  at  Verona  by  reason  of 
his  parts  as  a  preacher,  was  tall  and  shapely,  like 
a  spoilt  pretty  boy  to  look  at,  leggy,  and  soft  in 
the  palm.  His  frock  set  off  this  petted  appear- 
ance—  it  gave  you  the  idea  of  a  pinafore  on  him. 
He  did  not  look  manly,  was  not  manly  by  any 
means,  and  yet  not  so  girlish  but  that  you  could 
doubt  his  sex.  His  eyes,  which,  as  I  say,  were 
soft  as  a  dove's  pair,  he  was  not  fond  of  showing ; 
and  this  gave  them  the  more  searching  appeal 
when  he  did.  His  mouth,  full  and  fleshy  in  the 
lips,  had  a  lovely  curve.  He  kept  it  very  demure, 
and,  when  he  spoke,  spoke  softly.  This  was  a 
young  man  born  to  be  Lancilotto  to  some  Gi- 
nevra  or  other ;  and,  to  do  him  justice,  he  had  had 
his  share  of  adventure  in  that  sort  at  an  early 
age.  He  had  learned  more  out  of  Ovid  than 
from  the  Fathers  of  Divinity,  you  may  believe. 
Very  popular  he  was  in  whatsoever  convent  he 
harboured,  as  a  preacher  famous  all  over  Lorn- 


MADONNA  OF  THE  PEACH-TREE  15 

bardy  and  the  March,  —  in  Bergamo,  in  Brescia, 
even  as  far  as  Mantua  he  had  been  heard  of. 
The  superior  at  Verona  did  his  best  to  spoil  him 
by  endearment,  flattery,  and  indulgence ;  but  this 
was  difficult,  since  he  had  been  spoilt  already. 

He  passed  down  the  Via  Stella  morning  and 
evening  for  a  week.  Morning  and  evening  his 
eyes  encountered  Vanna's.  The  third  evening 
he  smiled  at  her,  the  fourth  morning  he  saluted 
her ;  the  fifth  evening  he  stopped  and  slipped  in 
a  gentle  word ;  the  first  evening  of  the  second 
week  he  stopped  again,  and  that  night,  La  Testo- 
lina  being  by,  there  was  quite  a  little  conver- 
sation. 

La  Testolina  had  black  eyes,  a  trim  figure,  and 
a  way  of  wriggling  which  showed  these  to  advan- 
tage. Fra  Battista's  fame  and  the  possibility  of 
mischief  set  her  flashing ;  she  led  the  talk  and 
found  him  apt :  it  was  not  difficult  to  aim  every 
word  that  it  should  go  through  and  leave  a  dart 
in  Vanna's  timid  breast.  The  girl  was  so  artless, 
you  could  see  her  quiver,  or  feel  her,  at  every 
shot.  For  instance,  was  his  sanctity  very  much 
fatigued  by  yesterday's  sermon  ?  Eh,  la  bella 
predica  !  What  invocations  of  the  saints,  what 
heart-groping,  what  reachings  after  the  better 
parts  of  women !  It  was  some  comfort  to  know 
that  a  woman  had  a  better  part  at  all  —  by  the 
Saviour !  for  their  handling  by  men  gave  no  hint 
of  it.  Let  Fra  Beato  —  ah,  pardon,  Fra  Battista 
she  should  have  said  —  send  some  such  arrows 
into  men's  hides !  See  them,  for  the  gross-feed- 
ing, surly,  spend-all,  take-all  knaves  that  they 
were !     One  or  two  she  might  name  if  she  had 


1 6  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

a  mind  —  ah !  one  or  two  in  this  very  city  of 
Verona,  in  this  very  Street  of  the  Star,  who  — 
But  there!  Vanna  must  go  and  hear  the  Frate's 
next  sermon,  she  must  indeed.  And  if  she  could 
take  her  old  curm —  Pshutt !  What  was  she  say- 
ing ?  How  she  ran  on !  She  did  indeed.  Fra 
Battista,  leaning  against  the  lintel,  kept  his  eye- 
lids on  the  droop,  seemed  to  find  his  toes  of 
interest.  But  now  and  again  he  would  look 
delicately  up,  and  so  sure  as  he  did  the  brown 
eyes  and  the  grey  seemed  to  swim  towards  each 
other,  to  melt  in  a  point,  swirl  in  an  eddy  of  the 
feelings,  in  which  Vanna  found  herself  drowning 
and  found  such  death  sweet.  La  Testolina  still 
ran  on,  but  now  in  a  monologue.  Fra  Battista 
looked  and  longed,  and  Vanna  looked  again  and 
thrilled.  It  grew  quite  dark;  nothing  of  each 
other  could  they  see  and  little  know,  until  the 
friar  put  out  his  foot  and  found  Vanna's.  A 
tremor,  beginning  at  her  heart,  ran  down  to  her 
toes;  Battista  felt  the  flutter  of  it  and  was 
assured. 

When  he  left  her  that  night  he  kissed  her  cold 
hand,  then  La  Testolina's,  which  he  found  by  no 
means  cold,  and  moved  off  leisurely  towards  the 
Piazza  dell'  Erbe.  Neither  woman  spoke  for  a 
while:  La  Testolina  was  picking  at  her  apron, 
Vanna  sat  quietly  in  the  dark  holding  her  heart. 
She  was  still  in  a  tremble,  so  ridiculously  moved 
that  when  her  friend  kissed  her  she  burst  out  cry- 
ing. La  Testolina  went  nodding  away;  and  the 
end  of  the  episode  may  be  predicted.  Not  at  one 
but  at  many  sermons  of  the  tall  Carmelite  did 
Vanna  sit  rapt ;  not  for  one  but  for  every  dusk 


MADONNA  OF  THE  PEACH-TREE  17 

did  he  stoop  to  kiss  her  hand.  All  Verona  saw 
her  devotion,  —  all  Verona,  that  is,  but  one  old 
Veronese.  The  essence  of  comedy  being  that 
the  spectators  shall  chuckle  at  actors  in  a  fog, 
here  was  a  comedy  indeed. 
c 


Ill 

THE    SEED    OF    DISCORD 

When  Vanna  announced  her  condition  the 
neighbours  looked  slyly  at  each  other;  when  her 
condition  announced  Vanna,  they  chattered ;  the 
gossip  sank  to  whispering  behind  the  hand  as 
time  went  on,  and  ceased  altogether  when  the 
baby  was  born.  That  was  a  signal  for  heads  to 
shake.  Some  pitied  the  father,  many  defended 
the  mother:  it  did  not  depend  upon  your  sex; 
sides  were  taken  freely  and  voices  were  shrill 
when  neither  was  by.  Down  by  the  river  espe- 
cially, upon  that  bleached  board  below  the  bridge, 
ci  and  si  whistled  like  the  wind  in  the  chimneys, 
and  the  hands  of  testimony  were  as  the  aspen 
leaves  when  storms  are  in.  Some  took  one  side, 
some  another;  but  when,  in  due  season,  it  was 
seen  what  inordinate  pride  Baldassare  had  in  the 
black-eyed  bambino,  there  was  no  question  of 
sides.  He  had  ranked  himself  with  the  unforgiv- 
able party :  the  old  man  was  an  old  fool,  a  gull 
whose  power  of  swallow  stirred  disgust.  Vanna 
had  the  rights  of  it,  they  said ;  such  men  were  made 
to  be  tricked.  As  for  Fra  Battista's  pulpit,  it  was 
thronged  about  with  upturned  faces;  for  those 
who  had  not  been  before  went  now  to  judge  what 
they  would  have  done  under  the  circumstances. 


MADONNA   OF   THE   PEACH-TREE  19 

Having  been,  there  were  no  two  opinions  about 
that.  Messer  Gabriele  Arcangelo,  some  said, 
judging  by  the  honey-tongue ;  San  Bastiano, 
others  considered  him,  who  went  by  his  comely 
proportions ;  and  these  gained  the  day,  since  his 
beardless  face  and  friar's  frock  induced  the  idea 
of  innocence,  which  Sebastian's  virgin  bloom  also 
taught.  The  quality  of  his  sermons  did  not  grow 
threadbare  under  this  adventitious  criticism :  he 
kept  a  serene  front,  lost  no  authority,  nor  failed  of 
any  unction.  There  was  always  a  file  at  his  con- 
fessional ;  and  at  Corpus  Christi,  when  in  the 
pageant  he  actually  figured  as  Sebastian,  his 
plump  round  limbs  roped  to  a  pine-stock  drew 
tears  from  all  eyes. 

Unhappily  you  have  to  pay  for  your  successes. 
There  were  other  preachers  in  Verona,  and  other 
eloquent  preachers,  who,  being  honest  men,  had 
had  to  depend  upon  their  eloquence.  These 
were  the  enemy — Franciscans,  of  course,  and 
Dominicans  —  who  got  wind  of  something  amiss, 
and  began  to  nose  for  a  scandal.  What  they 
got  gave  them  something  besides  eloquence  to 
lean  on:  there  were  now  other  sermons  than 
young  Fra  Battista's,  and  the  moral  his  person 
pointed  had  a  double  edge.  In  fact,  where  he 
pointed  with  his  person,  the  Dominicans  pointed 
with  their  sharp  tongues.  The  Franciscans, 
more  homely,  pointed  with  their  fingers.  Fra 
Battista  began  to  be  notorious  —  a  thing  widely 
different  from  fame ;  he  also  began  to  be  uncom- 
fortable, and  his  superior  with  him.  They  talked 
it  over  in  the  cloister,  walking  up  and  down  to- 
gether in  the  cool  of  the  day.     "  It  has  an  ugly 


20  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

look,  my  dear,"  said  the  provincial ;   "  send  the 
young  woman  to  me." 

What  of  the  young  woman,  meantime?  Let 
me  tell  the  truth:  motherhood  became  her  so 
well  that  she  was  brazen  from  the  very  begin- 
ning. No  delicacy,  no  pretty  shame,  no  shrink- 
ing—  she  gloried  in  the  growing  fact.  When 
she  was  brought  to  bed  she  made  a  quick  recovery ; 
she  insisted  upon  a  devout  churching,  an  elabo- 
rate christening  of  the  doubtful  son  (whereat,  if 
you  will  believe  me,  no  other  than  Fra  Battista 
himself  must  do  the  office !) ;  thenceforth  she 
was  never  seen  without  her  bimbo.  While  she 
worked  it  lay  at  her  feet  or  across  her  knee  like 
a  stout  chrysalis ;  the  breast  was  ever  at  its  ser- 
vice, pillow  or  fount ;  when  it  slept  she  lifted  up 
a  finger  or  her  grave  eyes  at  the  very  passers-by ; 
her  lips  moulded  a  "  Hush ! "  at  them  lest  they 
should  dare  disturb  her  young  lord's  rest.  The 
saucy  jade !  Was  ever  such  impudence  in  the 
world  before  ?  It  drew  her,  too,  to  old  Baldas- 
sare  in  a  remarkable  way.  This  the  neighbours 
—  busy  with  sniffing  —  did  not  see.  She  had 
always  had  a  sense  of  the  sweet  root  under  the 
rind,  always  purred  at  his  stray  grunts  and  pats, 
taking  them  by  instinct  for  what  they  were  really 
worth ;  and  now  to  watch  his  new  delight  filled 
her  with  gratitude  —  and  more,  she  felt  free  to 
love  the  man.  For  one  thing,  it  unlocked  his 
lips  and  hers.  She  could  sing  about  the  house 
since  Cola  had  come  —  they  had  christened  him 
after  good  Saint  Nicholas  —  because  Master  Bal- 
dassare  was  so  talkative  on  his  account.  The  old 
man  sat  at  home  whenever  he  could,  in  his  shiny 


MADONNA  OF  THE   PEACH-TREE  21 

armchair,  his  cup  of  black  wine  by  his  side,  and 
watched  Vanna  with  the  baby  by  the  hour  to- 
gether, poring  over  every  downward  turn  of  her 
pretty  head,  every  pass  of  her  fingers,  every  little 
eager  striving  of  the  sucking  child.  There  were, 
indeed,  no  bounds  to  his  content :  to  be  a  father 
—  poor  old  soul !  —  seemed  to  him  the  most  glori- 
ous position  in  the  world.  Can  Grande  II.  in  the 
judgment-seat,  the  bishop  stalled  in  his  throne, 
the  Holy  Father  himself  in  the  golden  chambers 
of  his  castle  at  Avignon,  had  nothing  to  offer  Ser 
Baldassare  Dardicozzo,  the  old-clothes  man. 

Though  the  neighbours  knew  nothing  of  this 
inner  peace,  they  could  not  deny  that  Monna 
Vanna,  brazen  or  no,  was  mightily  become  by  her 
new  dignity  or  (as  you  should  say)  indignity.  She 
was  more  staid,  more  majestic ;  but  no  less  the 
tall,  swaying,  crowned  girl  she  had  ever  been. 
She  was  seen,  without  doubt,  for  a  splendid  young 
woman.  The  heavy  child  seemed  not  to  drag 
her  down,  nor  the  slant  looks  of  respectable 
citizens,  her  neighbours,  to  lower  her  head.  She 
met  them  with  level  eyes  quite  candid,  and  a 
smiling  mouth  to  all  appearance  pure.  When 
she  found  they  would  not  discuss  her  riches  she 
talked  of  theirs.  When  she  found  them  over- 
satisfied  with  their  children,  she  laughed  quietly 
as  one  who  knew  better.  This  was  a  thing  to 
take  away  a  woman's  breath,  that  she  should 
grow  the  more  glorious  for  her  shame.  Party 
feeling  had  been  stormy,  like  crossing  tides,  be- 
tween those  who  held  Baldassare  for  a  gull  and 
those  who  resented  Vanna's  unruffled  brows. 
But  now  there  was  but  one  party.     It  was  very 


22  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

well  to  hoodwink  an  old  skinflint ;  but,  by  the 
Mass,  not  honest  to  flaunt  your  methods  in 
the  world's  face.  And  since  our  own  dignity  is 
the  skin  upon  which  we  rely  for  all  our  protection, 
while  contempt  for  our  neighbours  is  but  a  grease 
we  put  upon  it  for  its  ease,  it  was  self-defence 
which  brought  it  about  that  the  party  against 
Vanna  grew  ominously  large,  while  Baldassare 
gained  quite  a  host  of  sympathizers.  The  girl  was 
now  shunned,  ostentatiously,  carefully  shunned. 
Even  La  Testolina  was  shy  of  her.  But,  bless 
you,  she  saw  nothing  of  it  —  or  cared  nothing. 
She  chattered  to  her  grossly  deceived  husband, 
went  (nominally,  you  may  be  sure !)  confessing 
to  the  grossly  deceiving  friar,  she  cooed  to  her 
baby,  warbled  her  little  songs,  looked  handsome, 
carried  herself  nobly,  as  if  she  were  the  Blessed 
Virgin  herself,  no  less.  This  could  not  be  en- 
dured :  a  thousand  tongues  were  ready  to  shoot 
at  her,  and  would  have  shot  but  for  fear  of  old 
Baldassare's  grim  member  —  reputed  forked. 
While  he  was  in  the  way,  fat-headed  fool,  there 
was  no  moral  glow  to  be  won  by  a  timely  word. 
The  tongues  lay  itching;  two  or  three  barren 
women  in  the  Via  Stella  were  hoarding  stones. 

Then,  just  about  the  time  when  the  prior  of  the 
Carmelites  bid  Fra  Battista  send  him  the  young 
woman,  Baldassare  took  the  road  for  a  round  of 
chaffer  which  might  keep  him  out  of  Verona  a 
week.  The  Via  Stella  felt,  and  Fra  Battista  knew, 
that  the  chance  had  come. 


IV 

THE    HARVEST   OF   LITTLE    EASE 

Verona,  stormy  centre  of  strife,  whose  scarred 
grey  face  still  wears  a  blush  when  viewed  from 
the  ramp  of  the  Giusti  garden,  was  in  those  times 
a  place  of  short  and  little  ease.  The  swords  were 
never  rusty.  A  warning  clang  from  the  belfry, 
two  or  three  harsh  strokes,  the  tall  houses  dis- 
gorged, the  streets  packed ;  Capulet  faced  Mon- 
tagu, Bevilacqua  caught  Ridolfi  by  the  throat,  and 
Delia  Scala  sitting  in  his  hall  knew  that  he  must 
do  murder  if  he  would  live  a  prince.  It  seems 
odd  that  the  suckling  of  a  little  shopkeeper  should 
lead  to  such  issues ;  but  so  it  was.  And  thus  it 
was. 

On  the  morning  of  Baldassare's  setting-out  for 
the  Mantuan  road,  La  Testolina  —  at  that  time 
much  and  unhealthily  in  Fra  Battista's  hire  — 
came  breathless  to  the  Via  Stella.  Craning  her 
quick  head  round  the  door-post,  she  saw  Vanna 
sitting  all  in  cool  white  (for  the  weather  was  at 
the  top  of  summer),  stooped  over  her  baby,  happy 
and  calm  as  always,  and  fingering  her  breast  that 
she  might  give  the  little  tyrant  ease  of  his  drink. 
That  baby  was  a  glutton.  "  Hist,  Vanna,  hist !  " 
La  Testolina  whispered ;  and  Vanna  looked  up  at 
her  with  a  guarded  smile,  as  who  should  say, 

23 


24  LITTLE  NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

"  Speak  softer,  my  dear,  lest  Cola  should  strangle 
in  his  swallow." 

But  La  Testolina's  eyes  were  like  pin-points, 
centring  all  her  alarms. 

"  You  must  come  to  the  Carmelites,  Vanna. 
There  is  a  great  to-do.  The  warden  of  San 
Francesco  has  been  to  the  bishop,  and  the  bishop 
is  with  Can  Grande  at  this  moment.  You  must 
come,  indeed,  at  once — subitissimo ! '" 

Vanna  laughed  —  the  rich  quiet  laugh  of  a  girl 
whose  affairs  are  in  good  train,  and  all  other 
affairs  the  scratch  of  a  flea. 

"  Why,  what  have  I  to  do  with  the  bishop  and 
Can  Grande,  La  Testolina  ?  "  says  she.  "  My 
master  is  out,  and  I  must  mind  the  shop.  There 
is  baby  too." 

"  By  Saints  Pan  and  Silvanus,  my  girl,  it  will 
be  the  worse  for  you  if  you  come  not,"  said  La 
Testolina,  with  a  tragic  sniff.  "  Eh,  you  little 
fool,  don't  you  know  that  it  is  you  and  your  brat 
have  set  all  Verona  by  the  ears  ?  " 

Vanna  had  never  thought  of  the  ears  of  Verona, 
and  knew  not  how  to  think  of  them  now;  but 
she  saw  that  her  friend  was  in  a  fever  of  sup- 
pressed knowledge.  Therefore  she  shawled  her 
head  and  her  baby  in  her  sea-blue  cloak,  locked 
the  shop-door,  and  followed  La  Testolina. 

The  sealed  gates  in  the  white  convent  wall 
were  barred  and  double-locked.  A  scared  brother 
cocked  his  eye  through  the  grille  to  see  who  was 
there. 

"  It  is  she,"  hissed  La  Testolina. 

"  Dio  mio,  the  causa  causans  !  "  cried  he,  and  let 
them  in  through  a  cranny.     "  Follow  me,  mis- 


MADONNA  OF  THE   PEACH-TREE  25 

tresses,  and  God  give  good  ending  to  this  adven- 
ture," he  prayed  as  he  slippered  up  the  court. 

Vanna,  blank  and  smiling,  La  Testolina  with 
wandering,  fearful  eyes,  followed. 

They  found  the  prior  sitting  well  back  in  his 
ebony  chair  and  in  meditation,  his  chin  buried  in 
his  hand.  Behind  him  (and  behind  his  back  his 
hands)  was  Fra  Corinto  the  pittanciar,  pock- 
marked, thin,  and  mortified.  He  looked  the 
prior's  reproach,  and  was. 

"  Now,  women,"  said  the  prior,  testily  —  a  fat 
and  flabby  old  man  with  a  sour  mouth — "now, 
women,  which  of  you  is  at  the  bottom  of  this 
accursed  business?  Where  is  the  baby?  Let 
me  judge  for  myself." 

La  Testolina,  protesting  her  remarkable  inno- 
cence by  every  quiver  of  her  head,  edged  Vanna 
to  the  front.  Vanna  stood  up,  straight  as  a  candle, 
and  unveiled  her  bosom. 

"  Do  you  want  to  see  my  little  son,  reverend 
prior?  "  she  said.  "  Behold  him  here  {Eccololi)" 
She  held  him  out  proudly  in  her  arms,  as  if  he 
were  monstrance  and  she  priest. 

Now,  whether  it  was  that  motherhood  had  fired 
a  comely  girl  with  the  beautiful  seriousness  of  a 
woman,  so  that  she  was  transfigured  before  him ; 
or  whether  some  chance  passage  of  the  crossing 
lights  played  tricks  with  his  vision  —  which  it  was, 
or  whether  it  was  both,  I  know  not.  He  saw,  or 
thought  he  saw,  a  tall,  smiling  lady,  hooded  in 
blue  over  white,  holding  up  a  child ;  he  saw,  or 
thought  for  a  moment  that  he  saw,  the  Image 
of  all  Mothers  displaying  the  Image  of  all  Sons. 
His  fingers  pattered  over  his  scapular.     "  Eh,  my 


26  LITTLE  NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

Lady  the  Virgin  !  What  dost  thou  here,  glorify- 
ing this  place  ?  "  As  soon  as  he  had  said  it  he 
might  have  known  that  he  was  a  fool ;  but  Vanna's 
large  grey  eyes  loomed  upon  him  to  swallow  him 
up,  her  colour  of  faint  rose  glowed  over  him  and 
throbbed.  Vera  incessu  patuit  deaf  "  By  her 
presence  ye  shall  judge  her,"  quoth  the  prior  to 
himself,  and  hid  his  eyes. 

There  was  a  hush  upon  all  the  group  in  the 
chamber,  during  which  you  could  have  heard  afar 
off  the  nasal  discords  of  the  brethren  in  choir 
droning  through  an  office.  No  one  spoke.  The 
prior's  lips  moved  at  his  prayers ;  Fra  Corinto 
looked  frowningly  before  him ;  La  Testolina  was 
fidgety  to  speak,  but  dared  not ;  Vanna,  her  long 
form  like  a  ripple  of  moonlight  in  the  dusk,  cooed 
under  her  voice  to  the  baby;  he,  unheeding  cause 
of  so  much  strife  in  high  places,  held  out  his  pair 
of  puckered  hands  and  crowed  to  the  company. 
So  with  their  thoughts :  the  prior  thought  he  had 
seen  the  Holy  Virgin ;  Fra  Corinto  thought  the 
prior  an  old  fool ;  La  Testolina  hoped  his  rever- 
ence had  not  the  colic ;  and  Vanna  thought  of 
nothing  at  all. 

Fra  Corinto  it  was  (looking  not  for  Madonna  in  a 
baggage)  who,  by  discreetly  coughing,  brought  his 
master  back  to  his  senses.  The  prior  cleared  his 
throat  once  or  twice,  looked  at  the  young  woman, 
and  felt  quite  himself.  Ridiculous  what  tricks  a 
flicker  of  sunlight  will  play  on  the  wisest  of  men ! 

"  Monna  Vanna,"  said  he,  "  I  have  not  brought 
you  here  to  judge  between  you  and  my  brother 
Battista,  now  at  discipline  in  his  cell.  The  flesh, 
which  he  should  have  tamed,  has  raised,  it  ap- 


MADONNA  OF  THE  PEACH-TREE  27 

pears,  a  bruised  head  for  one  last  spite.  My 
brother  was  bitten,  and  my  brother  fell  into  sin. 
Whether,  as  of  old,  the  tempter  was  the  woman, 
it  is  sure  that,  as  of  old,  the  eater  was  a  man.  I 
will  not  condemn  you  unheard,  lest  I  incur  re- 
proach in  my  turn.  But  our  order  is  in  peril ; 
the  enemy  is  abroad,  with  Envy,  Hatred,  and 
Malice  barking  on  their  leashes.  What  can  the 
poor  sheep  do  but  scatter  before  the  wolves? 
Fra  Battista,  his  penance  duly  done,  must  leave 
Verona ;  and  you,  my  sister,  must  do  penance, 
that  God  be  not  mocked,  nor  the  Veronese  up- 
raised to  mock  Him." 

Of  this  solemn  appeal,  Vanna,  to  all  seeming, 
understood  not  one  word.  True,  she  blushed  a 
little,  but  that  was  because  a  prior  was  talking  to 
her:  her  honest  grey  eyes  were  quite  untroubled, 
her  smile  as  tender  as  ever.  She  spoke  as  one 
deprecating  temerity  —  that  she  should  speak  at 
all  to  so  great  a  man  —  and  by  no  means  any 
judgment. 

"  I  am  only  a  poor  girl,  reverend  prior,"  said 
she,  "  most  ignorant  and  thick-witted.  Pray,  what 
have  I  and  my  baby  to  do  with  these  high  mat- 
ters of  Fra  Battista's  error  ?  " 

The  prior  grew  angry.  "  Tush,  my  woman,"  he 
grunted,  "  I  beg  you  to  drop  the  artless.  It  is 
out  of  place  here.     Let  me  look  at  the  youngster." 

"  Yes,  yes,  mistress,  let  us  see  the  child,"  said 
Fra  Corinto,  who  croaked  like  a  nightingale  in 
June. 

Vanna  moved  forward  on  a  light  foot.  "  Will- 
ingly, reverend  fathers,"  said  she.  "  He  is  a  fine 
child,  they  all  say,  and  reputed  the  image  of  his 


28  LITTLE  NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

father."  A  sublime  utterance,  full  of  humour- 
some  matter,  if  it  had  been  a  time  for  humours. 

But  it  was  not.  La  Testolina  could  not  con- 
tain her  virtuous  indignation  —  for  who  is  so 
transcendently  righteous  as  your  rascal  for  once 
in  the  right  ? 

"  Hey,  woman!"  she  cried  shrilly,  "what  gross- 
ness  is  this  ?  Do  you  think  the  whole  city  don't 
know  about  you  ?  " 

Vanna  turned  quivering.  "  And  what  is  it  that 
the  whole  city  knows  but  does  not  say,  if  you 
please  ? " 

The  prior  wagged  helplessly  his  hands.  Like 
Pilate,  he  would  have  washed  off  the  business  if  he 
could.  He  looked  at  the  two  women.  Eh,  by 
the  Lord !  there  would  be  a  scene.  But  the  whole 
thing  was  too  impudent  a  fraud:  there  must  be 
an  end  of  it.  He  caught  Fra  Corinto's  eyes  and 
raised  his  brows.  Fra  Corinto  was  his  jackal  — 
here  was  his  cue.  He  went  swiftly  to  the  door,  set 
it  open,  came  back  and  caught  Vanna  roughly  by 
the  shoulder.  He  turned  her  shocked  face  to  the 
open  door,  and  his  dry  voice  grated  horribly 
upon  her  ears. 

"  Out  with  you,  piece !  "  was  what  he  said ;  and 
Vanna  reeled. 

For  a  full  minute  she  gaped  at  him  for  a  mean- 
ing; his  face  taught  the  force  of  his  words  only 
too  well.  She  sobbed,  threw  up  her  high  head, 
bent  it,  like  Jesus,  for  the  cross,  and  fled. 

The  old  porter  leered  by  his  open  gates.  "  He  ! 
he  !  They  are  all  outside,"  he  chuckled  —  "  Mag- 
pies and  Dusty-hoods,  Parvuses,  Minors  and 
Minims,  Benets,  and  Austins,  every  cowl  in  Ve- 


MADONNA  OF  THE  PEACH-TREE  29 

rona!     Come  along,  my  handsome  girl,  you  must 
move  briskish  this  day !  " 

She  heard  the  hoarse  muttering  of  the  men, 
and,  a  worse  poison  for  good  ears,  the  shrill 
venom  of  the  women.  Out  of  the  gates  she 
blindly  went,  and  all  the  pack  opened  their  music 
upon  her.  Stones  flew,  but  words  flew  faster  and 
stuck  more  deep.  The  mob,  as  she  blundered 
through  the  streets,  shuffling,  gasping,  stumbling 
at  her  caught  gown,  dry-eyed,  open-mouthed,  pant- 
ing her  terror,  her  bewilderment,  her  shame  and 
amaze  —  the  mob,  I  say,  dizzied  about  her  like  a 
cloud  of  wasps ;  yet  they  had  in  them  what  wasps 
have  not  —  voices  primed  by  hatred  to  bay  her 
mad.  There  was  no  longer  any  doubt  for  her :  the 
pittanciar's  word  (which  had  not  been  "  piece ") 
was  tossed  from  pavement  to  pavement,  from  bal- 
cony to  balcony,  out  at  every  open  door,  shot  like 
slops  from  every  leaning  casement,  and  hissed  in 
her  ears  as  it  flew.  It  was  a  mad  race.  The 
Franciscans  tucked  up  their  frocks  and  discarded 
stones,  that  they  might  run  and  shout  the  more 
freely.  The  Dominicans  soon  tired:  their  end 
was  served.  The  cloistered  orders  were  out  of 
condition ;  the  secular  clergy  came  to  weary  of 
what  was,  after  all,  but  a  matter  for  the  mendi- 
cants. The  common  people,  however,  had  the 
game  well  in  hand.  They  headed  her  off  the 
narrow  streets,  where  safety  might  have  been, 
and  kept  her  to  the  Lung'  Adige.  Round  the 
great  S  the  river  makes  she  battled  her  blind 
way,  trying  for  nothing,  with  wits  for  nothing, 
without  hope,  or  understanding,  or  thought.  She 
ran,  a  hunted  woman,  straight   before  her,  and 


3o  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

at  last  shook  off  the  last  of  her  pursuers  by  San 
Zeno.  Stumbling  headlong  into  a  little  pine-wood 
beyond  the  gates,  she  fell,  swooned,  and  forgot 

It  was  near  dark  when  she  opened  her  loaded 
eyes  —  that  is,  there  was  no  moon,  but  a  great 
concourse  of  stars,  which  kept  the  night  as  a 
long  time  of  dusk.  The  baby  was  awake,  too, 
groping  for  food  and  whimpering  a  little.  She 
sat  up  to  supply  him :  though  in  that  act  her 
brain  swam,  it  is  probable  the  duty  saved  her. 
Fearing  to  faint  again,  she  dared  not  allow  her- 
self to  think ;  for  children  must  be  fed  though 
their  mothers  are  stoned  from  the  gates.  Vanna 
nursed  him  till  he  dropped  asleep,  and  sat  on  with 
her  thoughts  and  troubles.  Happily  for  her,  he 
had  turned  these  to  other  roads  than  the  Lung' 
Adige.  She  knew  that  if  he  was  to  be  fed  again 
she  must  feed  also. 


THE    MIRACLE    O*    THE    PEACH-TREE 

Directly  you  were  outside  the  Porta  San  Zeno 
the  peach-trees  began — acre  by  acre  of  bent  trunks, 
whose  long  branches,  tied  at  the  top,  took  shapes 
of  blown  candle-flames:  beyond  these  was  an  open 
waste  of  bents  and  juniper  scrub,  which  afforded 
certain  eatage  for  goats. 

Here  three  herd-boys,  Luca,  Biagio,and  Astorre, 
simple  brown-skinned  souls,  watched  their  flocks 
all  the  summer  night,  sleeping,  waking  to  play 
pranks  on  each  other,  whining  endless  doggerel, 
praying  at  every  scare,  and  swearing  at  every 
reassurance.  Simple,  puppyish  folk  though  they 
were,  Madonna  of  the  Peach-Tree  chose  them  to 
witness  her  epiphany. 

It  was  a  very  still  night,  of  wonderful  star-shine, 
but  without  a  moon.  The  stars  were  so  thickly 
spread,  so  clear  and  hot,  that  there  was  light 
enough  for  the  lads  to  see  each  other's  faces,  the 
rough  shapes  of  each  other.  It  was  light  enough 
to  notice  how  the  square  belfry  of  San  Zeno  cut 
a  wedge  of  black  into  the  spangled  blue  vault. 
Sheer  through  the  Milky  Way  it  ploughed  a 
broad  furrow,  which  ended  in  a  ragged  edge. 
You  would  never  have  seen  that  if  it  had  not 
been  a  clear  night. 

Still  also  it  was.     You  heard  the  cropping  of 

31 


32  LITTLE  NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

the  goats,  the  jaws'  champ  when  they  chewed  the 
crisp  leaves;  the  flicker  of  the  bats'  wings.  In 
the  marsh,  half  a  mile  away,  the  chorus  of  frogs, 
when  it  swelled  up,  drowned  all  nearer  noise ;  but 
when  it  broke  off  suddenly,  those  others  resumed 
their  hold  upon  the  stillness.  It  was  a  breathless 
night  of  suspense.  Anything  might  happen  on 
such  a  night. 

Luca,  Biagio,  and  Astorre,  under  the  spell  of 
this  marvellous  night,  lay  on  their  stomachs  alert 
for  alarms.  A  heavy-wheeling,  white  owl  had 
come  by  with  a  swish,  and  Biagio  had  called  aloud 
to  Madonna  in  his  agony.  Astorre  had  crossed 
himself  over  and  over  again :  this  was  the  Angel 
of  Death  cruising  abroad  on  the  hunt  for  goats 
or  goat-herds ;  but  "  No,  no !  "  cried  Luca,  eldest 
of  the  three,  "  the  wings  are  too  short,  friends. 
That  is  a  fluffy  new  soul  just  let  loose.  She 
knows  not  the  way,  you  see.  Let  us  pray  for 
her.  There  are  devils  abroad  on  such  close 
nights  as  this." 

Pray  they  did,  with  a  will,  "  Ave  Maria,"  "  O 
maris  Stella,"  and  half  the  Paternoster,  when 
Biagio  burst  into  a  guffaw,  and  gave  Luca  a 
push   which   sent   Astorre  down. 

"  Why,  'tis  only  a  screech-owl,  you  fools ! "  he 
cried,  though  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  made 
him  falter ;  "  an  old  mouse-teaser,"  he  went  on  in 
a  much  lower  voice.     "  Who's  afraid  ?  " 

A  black  and  white  cat  making  a  pounce  had 
sent  hearts  to  mouths  after  this:  though  they 
found  her  out  before  they  had  got  to  "  Dominus 
tecum,"  she  left  them  all  in  a  quiver.  It  had  been 
a  cat,  but  it  might  have  been  the  devil.     Then,  be- 


MADONNA  OF  THE  PEACH-TREE  33 

fore  the  bristles  had  folded  down  on  their  backs, 
they  rose  up  again,  and  the  hair  of  their  heads 
became  rigid  as  quills.  Over  the  brow  of  a  little 
hill,  through  the  peach-trees  (which  bowed  their 
spiry  heads  to  her  as  she  walked),  came  quietly  a 
tall  white  Lady  in  a  dark  cloak.  Hey !  powers  of 
earth  and  air,  but  this  was  not  to  be  doubted ! 
Evenly  forward  she  came,  without  a  footfall,  with- 
out a  rustle  or  the  crackling  of  a  twig,  without  so 
much  as  kneeing  her  skirt  —  stood  before  them  so 
nearly  that  they  saw  the  pale  oval  of  her  face,  and 
said  in  a  voice  like  a  muffled  bell,  "  I  am  hungry, 
my  friends ;  have  you  any  meat  ? "  She  had  a  face 
like  the  moon,  and  great  round  eyes ;  within  her 
cloak,  on  the  bosom  of  her  white  dress,  she  held 
a  man-child.  He,  they  passed  their  sacred  word, 
lifted  in  his  mother's  arms  and  turned  open-handed 
towards  them.  Luca,  Biagio,  and  Astorre,  goat- 
herds all  and  honest  lads,  fell  on  their  faces  with 
one  accord  ;  with  one  voice  they  cried,  "  Madonna, 
Madonna,  Madonna !  pray  for  us  sinners ! ' 

But  again  the  Lady  spoke  in  her  gentle  tones. 
"  I  am  very  hungry,  and  my  child  is  hungry. 
Have  you  nothing  to  give  me  ?  "  So  then  Luca 
kicked  the  prone  Biagio,  and  Biagio's  heel  nicked 
Astorre  on  the  shin.  But  it  was  Luca,  as  be- 
came the  eldest,  who  got  up  first,  all  the  same ; 
and  as  soon  as  he  was  on  his  feet  the  others  fol- 
lowed him.  Luca  took  his  cap  off,  Biagio  saw  the 
act  and  followed  it.  Astorre,  who  dared  not  lift 
his  eyes,  and  was  so  busy  making  crosses  on  him- 
self that  he  had  no  hands  to  spare,  kept  his  on 
till  Luca  nudged  Biagio,  and  Biagio  cuffed  him 
soundly,  saying,  "  Uncover,  cow-face." 


34  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

Then  Luca  on  his  knees  made  an  offering  of 
cheese  and  black  bread  to  the  Lady.  They  saw 
the  gleam  of  her  white  hand  as  she  stretched  it 
out  to  take  the  victual.  That  hand  shone  like 
agate  in  the  dark.  They  saw  her  eat,  sitting  very 
straight  and  noble  upon  a  tussock  of  bents. 
Astorre  whispered  to  Biagio,  Biagio  consulted 
with  Luca  for  a  few  anxious  moments,  and  com- 
municated again  with  Astorre.  Astorre  jumped 
up  and  scuttled  away  into  the  dark.  Presently 
he  came  back,  bearing  something  in  his  two  hands. 
The  three  shock-heads  inspected  his  burden;  there 
was  much  whispering,  some  contention,  almost  a 
scuffle.  The  truth  was,  that  Biagio  wanted  to 
take  the  thing  from  Astorre,  and  that  Luca  would 
not  allow  it.  Luca  was  the  eldest,  and  wanted  to 
take  it  himself.  Astorre  was  in  tears.  "  Cristo 
amove!'1''  he  blubbered,  "you  will  spill  the  milk 
between  you.  I  thought  of  it  all  by  myself.  Let 
go,  Biagio ;  let  go,  Luca !  "  So  they  whispered 
and  tussled,  pulling  three  different  ways.  The 
Lady's  voice  broke  over  them  like  silver  rain. 
"  Let  him  who  thought  of  the  kind  act  give  me  the 
milk,"  she  said ;  so  young  Astorre  on  his  knees 
handed  her  the  horn  cup,  and  through  the  cracks 
of  his  fingers  watched  her  drink  every  drop. 

That  done,  the  cup  returned  with  a  smile  pierc- 
ingly sweet,  the  Lady  rose.  Saints  on  thrones, 
how  tall  she  was  !  "  The  bimbo  will  thank  you  for 
this  to-morrow,  as  I  do  now,"  said  she.  "  Good- 
night, my  friends,  and  may  the  good  God  have 
mercy  upon  all  souls  ! "  She  turned  to  go  the 
way  she  had  come,  but  Astorre,  covering  his  eyes 
with  one  hand,  crept  forward  on  three  legs  (as 


MADONNA  OF  THE   PEACH-TREE  35 

you  might  say)  and  plucked  the  hem  of  her  robe 
up,  and  kissed  it.  She  stooped  to  lay  a  hand 
upon  his  head.  "  Never  kiss  my  robe,  Astorre," 
said  she  —  and  how  under  Heaven  did  she  know 
his  name  if  she  were  not  what  she  was  ?  —  "  never 
kiss  my  robe,  but  get  up  and  let  me  kiss  you." 
Well  of  Truth  !  to  think  of  it !  Up  gets  Astorre, 
shaking  like  a  nun  in  a  fit,  and  the  Lady  bent 
over  him  and,  as  sure  as  you  are  you,  kissed  his 
forehead.  Astorre  told  his  village  next  day  as 
they  sat  round  him  in  a  ring,  and  he  on  the  well- 
head as  plain  to  be  seen  as  this  paper,  that  he  felt 
at  that  moment  as  if  two  rose-leaves  had  dropped 
from  heaven  upon  his  forehead.  Slowly  then, 
very  slowly  and  smoothly  (as  they  report),  did  the 
Lady  move  away  towards  the  peach-trees  whence 
she  had  come.  In  the  half  light  there  was  —  for 
by  this  it  was  the  hour  before  dawn  —  they  saw 
her  take  a  peach  from  one  of  the  trees.  She 
stayed  to  eat  it.  Then  she  walked  over  the  crest 
of  the  orchard  and  disappeared.  As  soon  as  they 
dared,  when  the  light  had  come,  they  looked  for 
her  over  that  same  crest,  but  could  see  nothing 
whatever.  With  pale,  serious  faces  the  three 
youths  regarded  each  other.  There  was  no  doubt 
as  to  what  had  happened  —  a  miracle  !  a  miracle  ! 
With  one  consent  then  —  since  this  was  plainly 
a  Church  affair  —  they  ran  to  their  parish  priest, 
Don  Gasparo.  He  got  the  whole  story  at  last ; 
nothing  could  shake  them ;  no  detail  was  want- 
ing. Thus  it  was :  the  Blessed  Virgin,  carrying 
in  her  arms  the  Santissimo  Bambino  Gesu,  had 
come  through  the  peach-trees,  asked  for  and 
eaten   of   their  food,  prayed   for  them   aloud  to 


36  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

Messer  Domeneddio  himself,  and  kissed  Astorre 
on  the  forehead.  As  they  were  on  their  knees, 
she  walked  away,  stopped,  took  a  peach,  ate  it, 
walked  on,  vanished  —  ecco!  The  curate  rubbed 
his  head,  and  tried  another  boy.  Useless:  the 
story  was  the  same.  Third  boy,  same  story.  He 
tucked  up  his  cassock  with  decision,  took  his 
biretta  and  walking-staff,  and  said  to  the  three 
goat-herds  — 

"  My  lads,  all  this  is  matter  of  miracle.  I  do 
not  deny  its  truth  —  God  forbid  it  in  a  simple 
man  such  as  I  am.  But  I  do  certainly  ask  you 
to  lead  me  to  the  scene  of  your  labours." 

The  boys  needed  no  second  asking:  off  they 
all  set.  The  curate  went  over  every  inch  of  the 
ground.  Here  lay  Luca,  Biagio,  and  Astorre; 
the  belfry  of  San  Zeno  was  in  such  and  such  a 
direction,  the  peach-trees  in  such  and  such.  Good: 
there  they  were.  What  next  ?  According  to  their 
account,  Madonna  had  come  thus  and  thus.  The 
good  curate  bundled  off  to  spy  for  footprints  in 
the  orchard.  Marvel !  there  were  none.  This 
made  him  look  very  grave ;  for  if  she  made  no 
earthly  footprints,  she  could  have  no  earthly  feet. 
Next  he  must  see  by  what  way  she  had  gone. 
She  left  them  kneeling  here,  said  they,  went 
towards  the  peach-garden,  stayed  by  a  certain 
tree  (which  they  pointed  out),  plucked  a  peach 
from  the  very  top  of  it  —  this  they  swore  to, 
though  the  tree  was  near  fourteen  feet  high  — 
stood  while  she  ate  it,  and  went  over  the  brow  of 
the  rising  ground.  Here  was  detail  enough,  it  is 
to  be  hoped.  The  curate  nosed  it  out  like  a  slot- 
hound  ;  he  paced  the  track  himself  from  the  scrub 


MADONNA  OF  THE  PEACH-TREE  37 

to  the  peach-tree,  and  stood  under  this  last  gazing 
to  its  top,  from  there  to  its  roots ;  he  shook  his 
head  many  times,  stroked  his  chin  a  few:  then 
with  a  broken  cry  he  made  a  pounce  and  picked 
up  —  a  peach-stone!  After  this  to  doubt  would 
have  been  childish;  as  a  fact  he  had  no  more 
than  the  boys. 

"  My  children,"  said  he,  "  we  are  here  face  to 
face  with  a  great  mystery.  It  is  plain  that  Messer 
Domeneddio  hath  designs  upon  this  hamlet,  of 
which  we,  His  worms,  have  no  conception.  You, 
my  dear  sons,  He  hath  chosen  to  be  workers  for 
His  purpose,  which  we  cannot  be  very  far  wrong  in 
supposing  to  be  the  building  of  an  oratory  or 
tabernacle  to  hold  this  unspeakable  relic.  That 
erection  must  be  our  immediate  anxious  care. 
Meantime  I  will  place  the  relic  in  the  pyx  of  our 
Lady's  altar,  and  mark  the  day  in  our  calendar 
for  perpetual  remembrance.  I  shall  not  fail  to 
communicate  with  his  holiness  the  bishop.  Who 
knows  what  may  be  the  end  of  this  ? ' 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  A  procession 
was  formed  in  no  time  —  children  carrying  their 
rosaries  and  bunches  of  flowers,  three  banners, 
the  whole  village  with  a  candle  apiece;  next  Luca, 
Biagio,  and  Astorre  with  larger  candles  —  half  a 
pound  weight  each  at  the  least ;  then  four  men  to 
hold  up  a  canopy,  below  which  came  the  good 
curate  himself  with  the  relic  on  a  cushion. 

It  was  deposited  with  great  reverence  in  the 
place  devoted,  having  been  drenched  with  in- 
cense. There  was  a  solemn  mass.  After  which 
things  the  curate  thought  himself  at  liberty  to 
ruffle  into  Verona  with  his  news. 


VI 

THE   VISITATION   OF   THE   GOLDEN   FISH 

When  a  beast  of  chase  —  hart-royal,  bear,  or 
wolf  —  has  been  bayed  and  broken  up,  the  least 
worthy  parts  are  thrown  to  the  curs  which  al- 
ways come  in  at  the  heels  of  the  pack.  So  it  is 
with  a  kingly  seat:  the  best  of  the  meats,  after 
the  great  officers  of  the  household  have  feasted, 
go  to  the  dependants  of  these ;  the  peelings  and 
guttings,  the  scum  and  scour  of  the  broth,  are 
flung  farther,  to  the  parasites  of  the  parasites, 
the  ticks  on  ticks'  backs.  Round  about  the 
Castle  of  Verona,  where  Can  Grande  II.  misused 
the  justice  which  his  forefathers  had  set  up,  lay 
the  houses  of  his  courtiers;  beyond  them  the 
lodgings  of  the  grooms ;  beyond  them  again, 
down  to  the  river's  brink,  were  the  stews  and 
cabins  and  unholy  dens,  whose  office  was  to  be 
lower  than  the  lowest,  that  there  might  still  be 
degrees  for  the  gentlemen  of  gentlemen's  gentle- 
men. And  since  even  cockroaches  must  drink, 
in  this  fungus-bed  of  misery  there  flourished  a 
rather  infamous  tavern  by  the  sale  of  vino  nos- 
trano,  black  and  sour,  of  certain  sausages,  black 
also  and  nameless,  speckled  with  white  lumps, 
and  of  other  wares  whom  to  name  were  to  ex- 
pose.    This  was  the  tavern  of  the  Golden  Fish. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  of  the  Translation 

38 


MADONNA  OF  THE   PEACH-TREE  39 

of  the  Peach-stone,  this  tavern  was  full  to  suffo- 
cation. Stefano,  the  purple-faced  host,  in  shirt 
and  breeches,  stood  dealing  the  liquor  from  a 
tub.  Two  outlaws  lay  under  the  benches,  partly 
for  fear  of  a  visit  from  the  watch,  partly  because, 
having  already  fallen  there  once,  they  feared  to 
fall  there  again  if  they  rose.  In  one  hand  each 
held  his  knife,  in  the  other  his  empty  mug.  Two 
ladies,  intimates  of  theirs,  Robaccia  and  Cruccia- 
corda,  sat  immediately  above  them,  with  petticoats 
ready  to  make  ambush  the  moment  a  staff  should 
rattle  at  the  door ;  round  the  table  half  a  dozen 
shabby  rogues  bickered  over  their  cards.  Pica- 
gente,  the  hairy  brigand,  lay  snoring  across  the 
threshold,  and  his  dog  on  him ;  on  a  barrel  in 
a  corner  a  gigantic  shepherd  in  leather,  with 
bandaged  legs  and  a  patch  over  one  eye,  shut  the 
other  eye  while  he  roared  a  hymn  to  Bacchus  at 
the  top  stretch  of  his  lungs.  The  oil-lamp  flick- 
ered, flared,  and  gloomed,  half  drowned  in  the 
fumes  of  wine.  A  smell  of  wicked  bodies,  foul 
clothes,  drink,  and  bad  language  made  the  air 
well-nigh  solid.  The  hour  was  at  the  stroke  of 
ten ;  outside  the  streets  seemed  asleep. 

In  the  middle  of  the  uproar  Stefano  the  host 
looked  up  sharply,  listening. 

"  Stop  your  devil's  ferment,  Malabocca !  "  he 
thundered  at  the  shepherd ;  "  stop  it,  or  I'll 
split  your  crown." 

"  Bacco  trionfante, 
Amante  e  spumante, 
Evviva  P  ubbriacchezza  !  " 

roared  Malabocca,  screwing  up  his  eye. 


40  LITTLE  NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

Stefano  brought  down  a  mug  full  of  wine  upon 
his  pate,  which  gave  him  a  red  baptism. 

"  Mum,  you  blockhead,  mum ! "  said  his  host. 
"  There  is  a  stir  outside  the  door  I  tell  you !  " 

The  shepherd  grew  sober  in  a  moment. 

There  was  a  brief  scramble  in  the  room  —  then 
silence.  The  ladies'  petticoats  went  farther  than 
they  were  ever  intended  to  go ;  Picagente  rolled 
over  and  over  till  he  reached  cover  under  the  table ; 
the  cards  were  hidden,  all  the  players'  heads  buried 
in  their  elbows.  Stefano  blew  out  the  light.  Then 
they  heard  distinctly  a  fluttering  knock  at  the  door, 
timid  but  continuous. 

Feigning  a  yawn,  Stefano  growled, "  Who's  there 
at  this  hour?" 

The  answer  came  in  a  woman's  voice,  saying, 
"  Open,  open,  in  the  name  of  high  God."  It 
brought  every  head  into  the  air  again,  but  hushed 
every  breath. 

The  shepherd  broke  the  silence  with  a  groan. 
He  brought  his  hand  splashing  on  to  his  wet  head, 
then  fell  to  his  knees  and  began  to  confess  his  sins. 

"  My  fault,  my  fault,  my  exceeding  great  fault ! 
O  Mary!  O  Jesus!    O  nobis peccatoribus ! " 

Thus  the  shepherd,  voicing  the  suspicions  of 
the  rest.  So  he  became  their  prophet  as  well  as 
their  priest.     He  towered  in  the  room. 

"  I  tell  you,  comrades,  that  the  hour  of  our  visi- 
tation is  come.  Not  Can  Grande  and  his  hounds 
are  hunting  us  this  night;  not  the  tumbril,  the 
branding-irons,  nor  the  cart's  tail,  are  for  us ;  but 
the  pains  of  death,  the  fire  eternal,  the  untirable 
worm,  the  trumpet  of  the  Last  Things!  Who 
comes  knocking  in  high  God's  name?    Who  saitb 


MADONNA   OF  THE   PEACH-TREE  41 

'Open'?  —  I  will  tell  you:  it  is  She  who  last 
night  lit  upon  my  village  and  my  own  sister's 
son.  Eh!  bodies  of  all  dogs,  what  will  become 
of  us  sinners?"  Here  the  shepherd  beat  the 
drum  of  his  breast  as  a  signal  before  he  fell  flat 
on  the  floor. 

From  behind  his  wailful  voice  the  gentle  knock- 
ing was  heard  running  on.  It  had  never  ceased ; 
it  was  insistent!  Crossing  himself  desperately, 
Stefano  slid  back  the  bolts,  then  paused,  then 
turned  the  key,  then  paused  again  to  breathe 
hard,  his  hand  upon  the  latch.  He  threw  his 
head  forward  with  a  gesture  of  abandonment  to 
what  must  be,  flung  wide  the  door,  and  dropped 
upon  his  two  knees. 

Against  a  mild  radiance,  softer  than  any  lamp 
could  shed,  was  a  tall  shrouded  woman's  figure. 
They  saw  the  round  of  her  cloaked  head,  they 
saw  the  white  stream  of  her  under-robe  run  from 
a  peak  at  her  bosom  in  a  broadening  path  to  her 
feet.  They  saw  the  pure  grey  moon  of  her  face, 
guessed  by  the  dark  rings  where  her  eyes  should 
be,  watched  with  quicker  awe  the  slow  movement 
of  her  arms,  lifted  their  own  to  what  she  held  up, 
and  to  the  running  under-current  of  the  two  sob- 
bing drabs  muttered  in  one  voice  their  remem- 
bered adoration. 

The  tall  shepherd  rose  up  by  the  help  of  the 
table,  swayed  and  spoke.  No  one  knew  his  voice 
again,  hollow  as  it  was  like  the  sea-grumble. 

"O  Holiest,  O  Rose,  O  Stem  of  Sharon,  O 
Tree  of  Carmel !  "  said  he.  "  What  wouldest  thou 
with  us  sinners?" 

And  the  woman  at  the  door  said,  "  My  friends, 


42  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

I  have  no  roof  to  my  head ;  will  you  take  me  in  ? 
I  am  hungry;  have  you  no  meat  for  my  child 
and  me  ? " 

The  host  in  Stefano  jogged  the  sinner  to  speak. 
"  Surely,  surely,  sweet  Lady  !  Surely,  surely.  I 
entreat  your  Graciousness  to  enter,  to  step  in,  to 
accommodate,  to  sit  down,  to  be  pleased  to  be 
easy,  to  —  to  —  to  —  "  inspiration  failed  him  — 
"  to  sit  down,  in  short,"  was  his  lame  conclusion. 
His  sweat  (as  he  said  next  day)  would  have  blinded 
any  other  man. 

Through  the  backing  ranks  of  the  scared  com- 
pany —  Robaccia  leaning  face  to  the  wall,  sobbing 
her  heart  out ;  Picagente,  the  hairy  brigand, 
breathing  short  and  hard ;  the  shepherd,  glorified, 
exalted,  bursting  with  prophecy;  two  thieves  at 
their  prayers  and  a  wanton  taking  the  words  from 
them, —  through  such  an  assembly  the  Lady  of 
the  Peach-Tree  (who  else,  pray?)  walked  to  the 
table.  A  soft  grey  light  from  without  filled  the 
room ;  there  was  no  need  of  a  lamp,  nor  did  any 
eye  then  on  watch  fail  to  see  all  that  followed. 
Bread  and  wine  were  served  by  Stefano  on  bent 
knee ;  bread  and  wine  (but  sparingly)  did  the  Lady 
eat  from  cup  and  platter.  That  cup,  that  platter, 
encased  in  gold  leaves  and  crusted  with  tur- 
quoise, are  to  this  day  in  the  Treasury.  Crutches 
have  been  cast  before  them,  hearts  innumerable 
burn  about  them.  When  she  had  finished  she 
sat  a  little  while  with  her  white  cheek  against  her 
hand,  whispering  words  in  an  unknown  tongue 
(they  said,  who  knew  no  baby  language)  to  the 
child  on  her  lap.  He  lifted  up  a  little  hand,  and, 
"  Eh,  my  son,  my  son,"  she  said,  "  wilt  thou  take 


MADONNA  OF  THE  PEACH-TREE  43 

of  me  ? "  Then  she  gave  him  the  breast,  while 
not  a  soul  said  anything  but  prayers  for  half  an 
hour. 

When  the  child  slept  the  Lady  folded  up  her 
dress,  covered  him  with  her  cloak,  and  rose  up  in 
their  midst. 

"  Only  the  poor  love  the  poor,"  said  she,  in 
those  low  tones  which  all  Verona  came  to  know 
by  heart,  "  and  only  they  who  have  little  to  eat 
give  to  them  that  have  less.  My  little  son  will 
bless  you  for  your  charity ;  and  I,  good  friends, 
will  pray  my  Master  to  reward  you  when  He 
comes.     Addio,  addio,  be  with  God." 

Then  she  would  have  gone  and  left  them 
crying,  had  not  Robaccia,  the  blowsy  wench  and 
good-for-naught,  wailed  aloud  and  caught  her  by 
the  knees. 

"  Mother,  mother,  mother !  "  whimpered  this 
hardy  rascal,  "bless  me  a  little  more  than  the 
others,  a  very  little  more  !  I  am  bad  —  eh,  God, 
I  am  vile,  enough !  —  but  I  will  never  let  thee  go 
save  thou  kiss  me." 

You  could  have  heard  the  roomful  of  them 
catch  breath  together.  Crucciacorda,  the  other 
woman,  laughed  horribly;  the  shepherd  made  a 
step  forward  to  drag  the  slut  away.  But  no ! 
The  light  seemed  to  swell  and  grow  towards  that 
point  where  it  threatens  to  be  music,  so  charged 
with  messages  it  is  —  it  came  undoubtedly  from 
the  heart  of  the  Lady  through  her  smile.  For 
smile  she  did,  as  sweetly,  as  tenderly,  as  a  break- 
ing cloud.  The  sun  of  her  smile  was  like  a  clean 
breath  in  the  stivy  den ;  and,  behold,  she  took 
Robaccia  by  the  hand  and  lifted  her  up,  she  en- 


°*A  a*^- 


44  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

circled  her  with  a  mothering  arm,  and  drew  her 
close  to  her  own  breast.  Her  lips  touched  the 
bad  girl's  cheek,  lingered  for  a  moment  there, 
wistfully  withdrew ;  and  Madonna  of  the  Peach- 
Tree,  none  staying  her  now,  went  out  into  the  dead 
street,  and  was  seen  no  more  of  that  company. 

The  sun  at  noon  looked  down  upon  Verona  at 
peace,  upon  her  citizens  at  their  prayers.  Never 
was  such  a  scene  in  the  stormy  little  city  before. 
All  the  bells  of  all  the  churches  pealed  all  day  — 
with  no  lack  of  arms  to  pull  them.  Men  and 
women  ran  to  and  fro  kissing  whom  they  met, 
with  a  "Save  you,  brother!"  "Save  you,  sister! 
well  met,  well  met ! "  The  Grey  Brethren,  the 
Black  Brethren,  the  White  Brethren  of  Carmel, 
held  hands,  and  confessed  to  each  other  as  many 
sins  as  they  had  time  to  remember.  Can  Grande 
went  unarmed  about  his  own  city,  Bevilacqua  un- 
barred his  door,  Giusti  married  his  mistress,  the 
bishop  said  his  prayers.  The  cripples  at  the 
church  doors  had  no  need  to  whine.  As  for 
the  tavern  of  the  Golden  Fish,  it  smelt  of  laven- 
der and  musk  and  bergamot  the  day  through.  At 
one  time  there  were  eight  litters  with  their  bearers, 
eleven  stallions,  trapped  and  emblazoned,  held  by 
eleven  grooms  in  livery,  outside  its  door.  The 
ladies  of  the  litters  were  in  the  room  upon  their 
knees ;  the  knights  of  the  horses,  their  great  hel- 
mets on  their  backs,  knelt  in  the  kennel  praying 
devoutly.  The  wail  of  "  Dies  Iras  "  went  down 
the  Corso  and  up  again,  "Salve  Regina"  wavered 
over  the  sunny  spaces  of  the  Bra.  In  the  amphi- 
theatre, after  an  open-air  mass,  the  Cardinal-Legate 
solemnly  exposed  the  relics  of  last  night's  mira- 


MADONNA  OF  THE   PEACH-TREE  45 

cle,  and  a  bodyguard  of  twenty  noble  youths,  six 
chaplains,  and  a  Benedictine  abbot  went  to  the 
suburb  to  escort  into  the  city  the  curate  with  the 
Peach-stone.  It  was  a  glorious  day,  never  to  be 
forgotten  in  the  annals  of  Verona.  Charity  and 
the  open  heart  went  side  by  side  with  compunction 
and  the  searching  of  the  heart.  Tears  were  shed 
and  kissed  away ;  kisses  induced  the  fall  of  gentler 
tears.  It  might  be  stoutly  questioned  whether 
Verona  held  one  unshriven  soul,  one  sin  un- 
spoken, or  one  solace  unawarded. 

It  might  be  reasonably  questioned,  yet  it  must 
be  denied.  Within  the  walls  of  the  friars  of 
Mount  Carmel  were  two  uneasy  spirits.  Fra 
Sulpicio,  the  fat  prior,  was  extended  face  down- 
wards before  the  high  altar;  Fra  Battista,  the 
eloquent  preacher,  chewed  his  thumb  in  his  cell. 
The  pittanciar,  on  the  other  hand,  was  of  the 
common  mind.  He  was  ambling  down  the  Via 
Leoni  with  Brother  Patricio  of  the  Capuchins  on 
one  arm  and  Brother  Martino  of  the  Dominicans 
on  the  other,  singing  "  In  Exitu  Israel  "  like  a 
choir-boy.  But  the  prior,  who  had  half  believed 
before,  was  sobbing  his  contrition  into  the  pave- 
ment, and  Fra  Battista  was  losing  faith  in  himself, 
the  only  faith  he  had. 


VII 

LAST  CONSIDERATIONS  OF  CAN  GRANDE  II. 

You  are  not  to  suppose  that  the  spectacle  of 
Verona  garbed  in  a  gown  of  innocence,  singing 
hymns  and  weaving  chaplets  of  lilies,  was  to  go 
unnoticed  by  the  ruling  power.  Can  Grande  II. 
was  lord  of  Verona,  a  most  atrocious  rascal,  and 
one  of  many;  but,  like  his  famous  ancestor  and 
namesake,  he  had  a  gibing  tongue,  which  was 
evidence  of  a  scrutiny  tolerably  cool  of  the  shifts 
of  human  nature.  Human  nature,  he  had  ob- 
served, must  needs  account  to  itself  for  itself.  If 
it  met  with  what  it  did  not  understand,  it  was 
prompt  to  state  the  problem  in  a  phrase  which  it 
could  not  explain.  The  simplicity  of  the  plan 
was  as  little  to  be  denied  as  its  convenience  was 
obvious.  It  was  thus  that  Can  Grande  II.  under- 
stood the  emotions  of  Verona;  it  was  thus,  in- 
deed, that  he  himself,  confronted  with  statements 
and  an  explanation  which  did  not  satisfy  him,  ac- 
counted to  himself  like  any  mother's  son  of  his 
lieges.  He  explained  their  explanation,  but  only 
by  another  inexplicable  formula.  The  energy 
with  which  he  expounded  his  own  view  to  those 
about  him  betrayed,  perhaps,  a  lurking  uneasiness 
in  the  burly  tyrant. 

"  Pooh,  my  good  lord,"  said  he  to  the  bishop, 
who  had  come  full  of  the  day's  doings  and  night's 

46 


MADONNA  OF  THE   PEACH-TREE  47 

report,  "don't  you  know  your  own  flock  better 
than  this?  Did  you  ever  hear  a  man  with  a 
broken  limb  attribute  his  mishap  to  other  than 
Domeneddio?  However  drunk  he  may  have 
been,  however  absurdly  in  a  hurry —  act  of  God  ! 
If  it  thunder  and  lighten  of  a  summer  night,  if 
it  turn  the  milk  —  a  judgment !  Luckily  Monsi- 
gnore  has  broad  shoulders  by  all  accounts ;  per 
Bacco! — He  had  need.  Now  then,  look  at  this 
case.  A  belated  woman  with  a  baby  stumbles 
upon  a  company  of  shepherds  all  in  the  twitter- 
ing dark.  Hearts  jump  to  mouths,  flesh  creeps, 
hairs  stand  tiptoe  —  Madonna,  of  course !  Whom 
else  could  they  call  her,  pray  ?  They  don't  know 
the  woman  :  name  her  they  must.  Well !  Who 
is  there  they  don't  know  whose  name  comes 
readiest  to  the  tongue  ?  Madonna,  of  course. 
Good :  Ecco  Madonna  !  " 

This  was  very  eloquently  reasoned,  but  the 
bishop  shook  his  head.  "It  was  not  a  brace  of 
goat-herds  last  night,  Excellency,  but  a  roomful 
of  brigands  and  their  trulls  in  the  Golden  Fish. 
The  worst  company  in  Verona,  Excellency  —  the 
most  brazen,  the  most  case-hardened.  But  the 
story  is  the  same  from  their  mouths  as  from 
the  lads' ;  not  a  detail  is  wanting ;  not  one  point 
gives  the  lie  to  another.  Excellency,  I  would 
bow  to  your  wit  in  any  case  but  this.  The  affair 
is  inexplicable  short  of  a  miracle." 

Can  Grande  knit  his  black  brows ;  he  objected 
to  be  crossed,  and  the  more  so  when  he  had  a 
sneaking  thought  that  he  was  rightly  crossed. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  my  Lady  this  night  with 
my  own  eyes,  bishop,"  said  he. 


48  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

"  Hey,  Excellency,"  cried  the  other,  "  there  are 
many  devout  souls  in  the  same  case." 

Can  Grande  pished.  "  Devout  jellyfish,"  he 
grunted ;  and  then  — "  She  seems  to  haunt  one 
quarter,  eh  ? " 

"  It  is  so,  Excellency,  save  that  yesterday  she 
must  have  passed  through  the  Porta  San  Zeno 
unseen  of  the  guard." 

"  Have  you  interrogated  the  guard  ?  "  asked  the 
tyrant,  sharply. 

"  It  was  done,  Highness.  Nothing  entered 
between  Compline  and  Prime  but  a  couple  of 
bullock-carts  and  a  cavalcade  of  merchants  from 
Brescia." 

"  What  was  in  the  bullock-carts,  bishop  ?  " 

"  Birch-bark,  Excellency,  for  the  yards." 

"H'm!"  was  all  Can  Grande  had  to  say  to  this. 
He  changed  the  conversation.  "  I  have  had 
the  warden  of  the  Minorites  and  the  provincial 
of  the  Dominicans  here  this  morning,"  he  said, 
"  about  that  accursed  business  of  the  rag-picker's 
wife.  It  is  another  example  of  what  I  told  you 
just  now,  that  these  people  attribute  what  they 
cannot  understand  to  persons  they  can  only  dream 
about.  They  put  down  the  whole  of  your  miracles 
to  a  special  reward  for  their  zeal  in  hounding 
down  the  Carmelite  and  his  mistress.  They  want 
the  order  expelled ;  I  think  they  would  like  the 
house  razed  and  the  church  washed  out  with  holy 
water,  or  Fra  Battista's  blood  —  the  latter  for 
choice.  Now,  I  cannot  pull  down  religious 
houses,  lord  of  Verona  though  I  be,  because  a 
herd  of  frightened  peasants  have  gone  capering 
over  the  city  singing,  '  Salve  festa  dies.'     I  must 


MADONNA  OF  THE   PEACH-TREE  49 

really  do  the  parties  the  honour  of  an  interview 
before  I  draw  the  sword.  Let  me  be  sure  which 
back  I  am  going  to  score  before  I  begin  to  carve. 
You  had  better  bring  the  prior  and  Fra  Lancil- 
lotto-Battista  to  me,  and  if  you  can  collect  the 
young  woman  and  her  brat,  so  much  the  better." 

"  Alas !  Excellency,  I  fear  the  young  woman  is 
in  pieces,"  said  the  bishop.  "She  has  never  been 
heard  of  since  the  day  of  her  expulsion." 

The  advice,  however,  was  good,  the  judgment 
good  enough ;  but  before  it  could  be  followed  a 
stroke  more  telling  than  any  Can  Grande's  sword 
could  have  made  was  wrought  by  Madonna  of 
the  Peach-Tree. 

On  the  night  of  that  same  day  Can  Grande 
was  sitting  in  the  palace  with  two  chosen  com- 
panions as  dare-devil  as  himself,  waiting  the 
hour  of  an  assignation.  It  was  about  ten  o'clock: 
at  half-past  the  hour  they  were  to  go  out  cloaked 
into  the  streets,  bent  upon  the  lifting  of  a  decent 
burgess's  wife  from  her  bed.  Hence  they  were 
not  in  the  castle,  which  is  near  San  Zeno,  but  in 
the  Delia  Scala  Palace,  in  the  very  heart  of  the 
city.  The  two  accomplices  were  Baldo  Baldi- 
nanza,  a  grey  villain,  and  young  Francesco  della 
Rocca  Rossa.  All  three  were  armed  with  swords 
and  daggers ;  the  cloaks  lay  with  the  masks  on 
the  table.  A  servant  came  to  the  door,  knocked, 
and  waited.  Can  Grande,  who  (to  be  just)  feared 
no  eye  upon  his  goings,  shouted  him  into  the 
room. 

"  Well,  son  of  a  pig,"  was  his  greeting,  "  and 
what  is  it  now  ? " 

The  fellow,  whose  teeth  chattered  in  his  head, 


50  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

announced  a  veiled  lady,  very  tall,  who  would  not 
be  denied.  Baldinanza,  grizzled  and  scarred  as 
he  was,  took  a  quick  breath  and  glanced  at  Rocca 
Rossa.  The  younger  man  was  at  no  pains  to 
conceal  his  emotions.  His  face  ran  the  gamut 
from  white  to  red,  from  red  back  again  to  white. 
It  ended  ashen.     Neither  looked  at  his  master. 

"  Let  her  in,"  said  Can  Grande ;  and  each 
noticed  how  laboriously  he  spoke. 

The  servant  turned  to  obey:  there  in  the  door- 
way stood  the  Lady. 

Tall  enough  she  was,  her  head  seemingly  about 
a  foot  from  the  cross-beam  of  the  door.  She  was 
cloaked  from  crown  to  foot ;  nothing  but  the  oval 
of  her  face,  colourless  white  with  lips  very  wan, 
and  a  droop  to  them  inexpressibly  sad,  showed 
out  of  the  dark  column  she  made.  The  servant 
shrank  into  the  passage  and  stayed  there  pray- 
ing ;  of  the  three  men  at  the  table  only  one,  Can 
Grande  himself,  had  the  spirit  left  to  be  courteous. 
He  got  up ;  the  other  two  remained  seated,  Fran- 
cesco with  his  face  in  his  arms. 

"  Madonna,"  began  the  tyrant ;  but  she  un- 
cloaked her  hand  and  put  a  finger  to  her  sad  lips. 

"  I  may  not  stay,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  so  weary 
that  it  drew  tears  to  Baldinanza's  wicked  old  eyes 
—  "I  may  not  stay;  but  I  must  warn  you,  Can 
Grande,  before  I  go.  Walk  not  in  the  streets 
this  night,  walk  not  by  the  Piazza,  pass  not  the 
arched  way;  peril  lies  there.  No  sword  shall 
help  you,  nor  the  royal  seat  you  have,  —  enter  it 
not.     Now  I  have  warned  you  ;  let  me  go." 

She  put  back  her  lifted  hand  under  her  cloak. 
Can  Grande  saw  the  round  head  of   the   Babe 


MADONNA  OF  THE  PEACH-TREE  51 

asleep.  For  five  minutes  after  her  disappearance 
no  one  spoke. 

Francesco  was  the  first.  He  groaned,  "  God 
have  mercy  upon  me  a  sinner,"  between  his  hands. 
Then  Baldinanza  began  to  swear  by  all  devils  in 
Christendom  and  Jewry,  not  blasphemously,  but 
in  sheer  desperate  search  for  a  little  courage.  Can 
Grande  shook  his  head  like  a  water-clogged 
hound,  as  if  to  get  the  ring  of  that  hollow  voice 
out  of  his  ears.  The  first  to  rise  was  the  eldest 
of  the  three.  His  eyes  were  very  bright,  and  you 
could  see  the  long  scar  plainly  shining  on  his 
cheek. 

"  I  am  a  sinner  too,"  said  he,  "  but  this  night 
I  will  sleep  clean."     He  made  to  go. 

"  Do  you  desert  me,  comrade  ? "  Can  Grande 
asked. 

The  old  dog  turned  upon  his  master. 

"  Mother  of  Pity !  "  he  said  in  a  whisper,  "  you 
are  never  going  after  this  ?  " 

"  I  am  going,  good  sir.  What  of  you  ? "  Baldi- 
nanza blinked  hard.  "  I  am  your  servant,  Can 
Grande,"  he  said  shortly ;  "  where  you  go  I  follow. 
That  is  how  I  read  the  Book  of  the  Law." 

"  Well,  Checco,"  the  tyrant  went  on,  turning 
to  the  youngster  still  at  the  table,  "what  of 
you  r 

Francesco  threw  up  his  arms.  "  Never,  Excel- 
lency, never ! "  he  groaned  in  his  anguish.  "  I 
dare  not,  I  dare  not ! "  He  concealed  neither  his 
tears,  nor  his  despair,  nor  his  bodily  fear. 

Can  Grande  shrugged.  "  Are  you  ready, 
Ubaldo  ?  "   he  asked. 

Baldinanza  bowed    his   head.      The  two  men 


52  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

cloaked  and  masked  themselves,  and  went  out 
of  the  palace.  The  moon  shone  broad  over  the 
Piazza ;  it  was  a  cold  white  night.  They  crossed 
at  the  farther  corner,  went  up  a  few  steps,  and 
then  were  lost  in  the  glooms  of  the  arched  way. 
They  never  came  out  alive.  Six  hired  daggers 
hacked  the  life  out  of  them  and  their  hearts  from 
their  bodies.  To  this  day  the  unwholesome  place 
is  called  for  a  testimony  the  "  Volto  Barbaro,"  the 
horrid  entry.  So  died  in  his  sin  Can  Grande  II., 
a  man  who  feared  nothing  and  won  nothing 
but  fear,  and  Can  Signorio  his  son  reigned  in  his 
stead.  You  might  trust  the  cloth-white  lackey 
and  the  stricken  conscience  of  Francesco  della 
Rocca  Rossa  to  spread  the  news  they  had. 


VIII 

THE    REPROACHES 

A  scared  city  of  blank  casements,  a  city  of 
citizens  feverishly  asking  questions  whose  answers 
they  knew  beforehand,  a  city  of  swift  feet  and 
hushed  voices,  was  Verona  on  the  morrow  of  Can 
Grande's  murder.  They  carried  the  two  torn 
bodies  covered  with  one  sheet  to  Sant'  Anastasia, 
and  laid  them  there,  not  in  state  but  just  huddled 
out  of  sight,  while  the  bishop  and  his  canons  sang 
a  requiem,  and  "  Dirige  "  and  "  Placebo  "  went 
whining  about  the  timbers  of  the  roof.  Nobody 
mourned  the  man,  yet  he  had  his  due.  His  yel- 
low-skinned wife  knelt  at  his  feet ;  Can  Signorio, 
the  new  tyrant,  frozen  rigid,  armed  in  mail,  knelt 
at  his  head.  The  mercenaries  held  the  nave,  the 
bodyguard  the  door,  archers  lounged  in  the 
Piazza.  All  this  parade  of  force  was  mere  super- 
fluity ;  Verona  had  no  desire  to  revolt.  The 
Veronese  were  for  rending  their  hearts  and  not 
their  rulers  that  day. 

In  the  afternoon  the  show  of  a  trial-at-law  was 
made.  The  depositions  of  the  lackey,  of  Rocca 
Rossa,  of  the  finders  of  the  murdered  and  the 
hunters  for  the  murderers,  were  taken  and  re- 
corded by  the  Podesta  in  the  presence  of  the 
council.     After  that    the  six  unknown   dastards 

53 


54  LITTLE  NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

were  publicly  condemned  to  death  by  the  civil 
power  from  the  loggia  of  the  palace,  and  as  pub- 
licly excommunicated  by  the  bishop  from  the 
steps  of  the  cathedral.  It  was  felt  on  all  hands 
that  on  this  occasion  the  bishop  had  wielded  the 
heavier  arm  :  at  least,  in  the  absence  of  the  crimi- 
nals, he  had  brought  his  chances  level.  But 
what  gave  him  most  weight  was  that  which  had 
made  the  testimony  of  Francesco  and  the  lackey 
overshadow  every  event  of  a  week  full  of  events 
—  the  interposition  of  Madonna  of  the  Peach- 
Tree.  Not  a  soul  in  the  city  was  left  to  doubt ; 
it  might  be  said  that  not  a  soul  was  left  to  save, 
if  faith  can  save  you.  The  churches  were  packed 
from  dawn  to  dark,  not  an  altar  in  a  chapel  went 
bare  of  a  mass.  There  were  not  enough  of  them. 
Altars  were  set  up  in  the  squares,  and  the  street- 
ends  blocked  by  a  kneeling,  bowing,  weeping, 
adoring  crowd.  The  bishop  spoke  the  common 
mind  when  at  Vespers  that  night  he  gave  notice 
that  he  should  go  forthwith  to  purge  the  Carmel- 
ite church  of  the  stain  upon  it,  "  at  the  request 
of  my  reverend  brother  the  Prior  Provincial  of 
the  Order."  He  set  out  then  and  there  in  solemn 
procession  of  the  whole  cathedral  chapter.  Rank 
formed  on  rank  behind  him  till  his  ordered  fol- 
lowing trailed  across  Verona  like  a  host. 

Now,  although,  as  it  has  been  said,  and  truly 
said,  there  was  no  soul  in  the  city  who  doubted, 
there  was  one  soul  very  much  in  doubt.  That 
was  Fra  Battista's.  The  offer  of  purgation  ha4 
come  in  frenzy  from  the  lips  of  his  prior ;  by  its 
acceptance  Fra  Battista  saw  himself  driven  to  one 
of  two  courses.     He  must  destroy  his  reputation 


MADONNA  OF  THE  PEACH-TREE  55 

for  obedience  to  heavenly  commands  which  it  had 
been  rank  heresy  in  him  to  overlook,  or  that  other 
reputation  he  had  won,  for  being  a  desperate  lover, 
upon  which  he  shrewdly  surmised  some  of  his 
fame  depended.  He  may  have  been  right  about 
that  —  I  am  not  here  to  defend  him.  If  he  ad- 
mitted his  guilt,  he  would  be  unfrocked;  he  would 
show  like  a  chanticleer  stripped  of  his  hackles 
before  his  hens.  If  he  denied  it,  he  could  never 
preach  to  the  women  again.  Admit  it  ?  Be  de- 
graded ?  Eh,  that  would  be  a  nasty  shift!  Deny 
it  ?  Oh,  preposterous !  The  whole  day  he  battled 
with  himself,  voice  crying  against  voice,  without 
result.  Observe,  it  was  a  mere  case  of  expediency : 
he  had  no  thought  to  own  a  fault  or  repudiate  a 
slander — the  fellow  had  no  conscience  at  all.  Ex- 
pediency, indeed,  was  his  conscience,  his  attention 
to  it  the  ladder  whereby  he  hoped  to  climb  to  the 
only  heaven  he  knew.  No  imagination  had  he, 
but  very  tender  senses.  Applause  —  the  hushed 
church,  the  following  eyes,  the  sobered  mouths,  a 
sob  in  the  breath  —  stood  him  foi  glory.  He  had 
worked  for  this,  and,  by  the  Lord !  he  had  won 
it.  And  now  he  must  lose  it.  Eh,  never,  never ! 
Stated  thus,  he  knew  the  issue  of  his  battle.  He 
knew  he  could  not  give  up  these  things  —  eye- 
service,  lip-service,  heart-service —  of  which  he  had 
supped  so  thirstily.  Rather  be  unfrocked,  driven 
out  of  the  city,  reviled,  and  spit  upon,  than  admit 
such  a  shame  as  that  other:  to  prove  himself  a 
vapourer  before  his  slaves,  to  be  pricked  like  a 
bulging  bladder,  slit  open  like  a  rotten  bag  — 
God  of  the  love  of  women,  never,  never  in  life ! 
The  other  course,  then  ?     He  pictured  himself, 


56  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

the  tall  and  comely  youth,  standing  up  alone  be- 
fore the  grim  assembly  of  elders,  flinty  old  men 
who  knew  nothing  of  my  Lord  Amor,  how  he 
rides  afield  in  a  rose-coloured  garment,  throwing 
a  flower  and  a  dart  to  boy  or  girl  as  he  goes.  He 
saw  a  dewy-eyed  Battista  owning  himself  Love's 
priest.  The  women  called  him  Sebastian  for  his 
beauty.  A  Sebastian  he  was,  per  Dio  !  stuck  all 
over  with  Amor's  fiery  darts.  Like  Sebastian,  by 
his  persecutors  he  would  be  stripped  bare ;  like 
that  martyr's  enemies,  they  would  wound  his  ten- 
der flesh ;  like  Sebastian  he  would  endure,  casting 
his  eyes  upwards ;  and  like  Sebastian  he  would 
infallibly  be  wept  by  the  women. 

If  women  will  weep  for  you  they  will  bleed  for 
you ;  the  fount  of  tears  feeds  a  river  as  well  as 
betrays  a  hidden  well.  Good,  then  ;  good,  then  ! 
He  saw  a  future  in  all  this.  From  the  other 
spike  of  the  dilemma  he  saw  nothing  but  his 
impaling ;  in  this  case,  if  he  was  impaled,  balm  at 
least  would  be  laid  upon  his  wounds.  Fra  Bat- 
tista determined  to  brazen  it  out  before  Verona. 

They  lit  the  tapers  in  the  sanctuary  betimes ; 
and  then  all  the  brethren  in  their  hoods  sat  in 
choir  awaiting  the  bishop.  With  him  and  his 
clergy  should  come  the  reverend  prior.  Fra  Bat- 
tista was  to  stand  on  the  rood-step  to  make  his 
purgation.  He  would  be  backed  by  the  light. 
So  much  of  grace  they  would  do  him,  that  he 
should  face  a  sea  of  dark,  and  be  seen  but  in 
outline  by  it. 

The  bishop's  procession,  long  announced  by 
the  indefinable  hum  a  great  crowd  breeds,  swept 
up  the  nave  with  a  slippering  of  countless  feet. 


MADONNA  OF  THE   PEACH-TREE  57 

The  bishop  in  purple,  his  canons  in  scarlet,  his 
cross-bearer,  his  chaplains  and  singing-men,  the 
bearer  of  his  mitre,  his  ring  on  a  cushion ;  after 
these  the  archdeacon  and  his  chaplains,  the  clergy 
of  the  city,  heads  of  religious  orders,  representa- 
tives of  the  civil  arm,  Can  Signorio  with  the  offi- 
cers of  his  household ;  finally,  the  silent  eager 
people,  edging  past  each  other,  whispering,  cran- 
ing their  heads  to  see  what  there  was  and  what 
there  was  not  to  be  seen.  So  came  Verona  in  a 
multitude  to  the  great  business  of  Fra  Battista 
and  the  rag-picker's  wife,  in  reality  thrilling  with 
but  one  thought:  Madonna  of  the  Peach-Tree 
was  in  the  city,  for  any  waking  soul  to  see ! 

After  the  penitential  psalms,  a  litany,  and  the 
office  appointed,  the  bishop  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  altar,  and  spoke  urbi  et  orbi  from  the  text, 
"  God,  who  in  divers  times  and  in  divers  places," 
etc.  I  cannot  do  more  than  report  the  sum  of 
his  discourse,  which  was  that,  as  it  was  plain 
these  late  marvels  had  some  root  in  the  hidden 
ways  of  men's  hearts,  so  it  behoved  him  as  a 
father  to  lay  all  such  ways  bare.  That  for  him- 
self, if  he  might  speak  as  a  man  only,  he  was 
conscious  of  no  sin  unpurged  which  the  appari- 
tions might  condemn,  and  certainly  (alas !)  of  no 
graces  of  his  own  which  they  could  have  been 
designed  to  reward.  Let  each  speak  for  himself. 
If  there  was  any  man  in  that  vast  assembly  un- 
shriven,  let  him  confess  now  what  his  fault  was ; 
so  that  instant  prayer  might  be  made  to  their 
glorious  Visitant  for  forgiveness  by  intercession. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  there  was  some  Christian 
virtue  blossoming  in  secret,  let  them  (brethren) 


5 8  LITTLE  NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

find  it  speedily  out,  that  thanks  might  be  given 
for  mercies  vouchsafed.  It  was  noticed  after- 
wards that  the  death  by  butchery  of  the  feudal 
lord  was  passed  by  without  a  comment.  There 
might  have  been  reason  for  this  in  the  circum- 
stance that  Can  Grande  II.  had  been  warned  of 
his  sin,  had  nevertheless  set  out  to  commit  it,  and 
had  died  in  the  act,  as  it  had  been  foretold.  To 
discuss  all  this  in  the  hearing  of  Can  Signorio, 
his  successor,  might  have  been  a  task  too  delicate 
for  the  bishop.  But  I  believe  that  the  scent  of 
the  miraculous,  which  was  all  about  him,  was  too 
much  for  him.  He  could  nose  out  nothing  be- 
yond the  line  which  that  fragrance  seemed  to 
point.  All  his  thoughts,  with  those  of  his  audi- 
tors, were  upon  Madonna  of  the  Peach-Tree, 
whom  there  was  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  to 
connect  with  Fra  Battista,  his  doings  and  undo- 
ings. No  one  detected  this,  so  Can  Grande  may 
have  been  inspired.  A  great  to-do,  which  no  one 
had  the  rights  of,  was  followed  by  mysterious 
appearances  which  no  one  pretended  to  under- 
stand. What  more  natural  than  that  one  mys- 
tery should  be  allowed  to  explain  the  other  ? 

The  bishop  having  ended,  the  prior  (who  was 
very  nervous)  began.  There  were  certainly  foxes 
here  and  there  in  the  vineyard,  wild  grapes  on 
the  vines  as  well  as  grapes.  No  community  was 
so  holy  but  that,  through  excess  of  zeal,  over-in- 
flamed by  charity,  it  might  nurture  upon  its  bosom 
a  fanged  snake.  Might  he  not  allude  to  the  de- 
testable  and  never-enough-to-be-condemned  sin  of 
simony  which,  as  they  knew  only  too  well,  had 
fattened  in  the    Dominican  convent  at   B ? 


MADONNA  OF  THE  PEACH-TREE  59 

What  should  he  say  of  that  Friar  Minor,  the  fa- 
mous preacher  of  S ,  who  had  been  found 

dead  of  a  surfeit  of  melons  and  white  wine  ? 
Alas!  he  brought  the  taint  of  gluttony — a 
deadly  sin  —  upon  his  order!  Wonderful,  then, 
would  it  be  in  such  days  as  these  if  the  most  re- 
nowned of  all  orders  and  most  venerable,  that  of 
Mount  Carmel,  should  pass  unscathed  through 
the  tempting  fires!  Not  only  wonderful,  but  in 
itself  a  snare.  What  a  temptation  to  the  sin  of 
pride  in  the  order!  What  a  drawing  on  of  others 
(too  disposed  already)  to  the  sin  of  envy,  to  un- 
charitable speaking — ah,  and  to  unlovely  deal- 
ing! Let  sin  be  owned,  therefore,  since  men  were 
born  sinners;  but  let  purgation  be  done,  the 
wicked  member  plucked  out,  etc. 

He  passed  to  the  sin  of  Fra  Battista  —  that 
promising  young  apostle — handled  it  soberly  yet 
gingerly,  hinted  extenuating  circumstances  —  the 
pride  of  life,  young  blood,  the  snares  of  women, 
Satan's  favourite  sitting-places,  etc. — drew  a  tear 
or  two  from  his  own  eyes  and  floods  from  La 
Testolina ;  and  then  called  Fra  Battista  to  come 
forth  that  he  might  purge  himself  or  be  purged 
by  the  canon  law. 

Thus  exhorted,  Fra  Battista,  becomingly  ton- 
sured, delicately  combed,  with  an  aspect  most 
meek  and  hands  at  a  pretty  droop,  came  demurely 
out  of  the  friars'  door  into  the  full  light  of  the 
chancel.  To  the  bishop  he  bowed,  to  the  altar 
he  bent  a  knee,  to  his  father  in  religion  he  bent 
both ;  to  the  hush  in  the  nave  he  cast  a  glance  of 
wistful  appeal.  It  was  truly  aimed.  They  could 
see  nothing  of  his  face,  nothing  but  the  shape  of 


60  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

him,  yet  the  women  were  sure  he  made  a  wistful 
appeal.  Many  were  affected ;  the  anxiety  to  hear 
him  was  intense,  the  squeezing  fearful.  An  enor- 
mous fish-seller  from  the  Lago  di  Garda,  who 
had  come  in  express,  leaned  over  La  Testolina 
and  ground  a  braized  heel  into  her  toes.  "  Achi!" 
whimpered  the  little  laundress;  but  "Snakes  of 
Purgatory!"  said  the  other,  "what's  a  toe  more 
or  less  when  Madonna  is  round  the  corner  with 
a  blessing  for  us  in  her  maunch?" 

In  a  rapt  silence,  with  no  preface  at  all,  Fra 
Battista  made  direct  confession  to  all  his  gods 
(whether  remote  or  throned  within  the  sanctuary- 
rail)  that  he  had  committed  the  sin  whereof  he 
was  accused.  A  perceptible  shiver  of  sensation 
swept  over  the  church,  although  everybody  in  it 
was  sure,  before  he  had  uttered  a  word,  what  that 
word  ought  to  be.  Indeed,  he  had  never  denied 
it;  but  not  to  deny  is  different  from  bold  affirma- 
tion. The  prior,  whose  avowal  had  also  been  tacit, 
looked  pained:  avowals  are  painful  things.  The 
bishop,  more  used  to  avowals,  did  his  best  to  look 
shocked;  the  archdeacon  (professionally  enough) 
thought  avowal  the  most  indecent  part  of  an  inde- 
cent business.  The  Dominicans  looked  at  each 
other,  frankly  delighted;  the  Friars  Minor  told 
each  other  what  they  had  always  said.  What  the 
people  thought  can  only  be  guessed,  for  the  nave 
was  in  darkness;  but  when  Battista  had  made  an 
end,  a  shuddering  sigh  came  from  a  woman  far 
down  the  church,  and  then  stopped,  hidden  in  some 
hasty  new  movement  there  which  could  not  be  ac- 
counted for.  There  seemed  to  be  a  stampede, 
a  sudden  rush  to  the  side,  the  surging  of  some 


MADONNA   OF  THE   PEACH-TREE  61 

great  unsuspected  wave,  which  broke,  as  it  were, 
in  the  midst  of  the  throng,  and  washed  an  open 
space  to  right  and  left.  Up  in  the  choir,  after  the 
first  surge  of  this  wave  (which  made  every  heart 
beat),  all  ears  heard  the  long-drawn,  following 
"Ah!" — not  fear  only,  not  expectation  made  real, 
but  rather  awe,  expectation  shown  just.  It  began 
low  and  hollow,  ran  up  to  a  hiss:  then  the  silence 
was  such  that  the  cracking  of  a  man's  ankle-bone 
by  the  door  sounded  like  a  carter's  whip  to  him 
upon  the  bishop's  throne.  In  that  deathly  state 
the  whole  body  of  people  remained  breathless, 
waiting  what  was  to  ensue. 

Out  of  the  dark,  stealing  (it  appeared)  from 
the  middle  of  the  nave  and  floating  down  the 
church  upon  a  bodily  silence,  came  a  cold  voice. 
Like  a  wind  from  the  snow-mountains  it  came  in 
a  thin  stream,  before  which  Fra  Battista  shrivelled 
visibly. 

"O  thou  craven!"  it  said,  "thou  wicked  man! 
what  sin  can  be  greater  than  thine?  If  thou 
hadst  done  this  thing  thou  ownest  to,  it  had 
gone  better  with  thee  than  now,  when  thou  stand- 
est  a  liar  and  boaster  in  a  filthy  cause.  Wilt  thou 
foul  thyself,  Battista,  and  think  it  honour?  I  tell 
thee  that  it  was  more  tolerable  for  that  stoned 
simple  wretch  than  it  shall  be  for  thee;  and  it 
were  better  that  men  should  go  unsouled  like  the 
dogs,  committing  offence  with  their  bodies,  than 
souled  horribly  like  thee,  thou  sinner  of  the  mind, 
idolater  of  thine  own  image !  Dost  thou  yet  make 
slippery  the  ways  of  Mount  Carmel,  Battista? 
Dost  thou  yet  hang  the  pearls,  which  are  the 
tears   of    Mary,  about  thy   neck  ?    It  shall  be  in 


62  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

such  case  that  Carmel  will  be  her  holy  hill  no 
more,  and  those  same  pearls  turned  to  leaden 
bulls  to  seal  thee  in  Tophet.  There  is  no  mercy 
for  the  coward,  and  none  for  him  that  serves  false 
gods.  Go  forth,  thou  groper  after  vainglory,  ken- 
nel with  the  swine ! " 

The  voice  ceased.  Fra  Battista,  who  had  been 
rocking  under  its  chill  breath,  fell  with  a  thud. 
The  bishop  adored  the  altar;  the  rest  —  priests, 
monks,  people  alike  — broke  into  "  Salve  Regina," 
so  loud,  so  wild,  the  very  church  seemed  to  shake. 
At  that  time  the  west  doors  flung  open  of  them- 
selves, and  a  roaring  wind  swept  round,  disastrous 
to  candles.  A  quick  flicker  of  blue  flame  jagged 
across  the  nave ;  the  thunder  came  instant,  peal- 
ing, crackling,  braying  ruin,  fading  at  last  to  a 
distant  grumble ;  and  then  the  rain.  No  one  got 
home  that  night  with  a  dry  skin;  but  it  was 
Madonna  who  had  quenched  the  doubting  of 
Fra  Battista,  and  washed  fragrant  the  memory 
of  Vanna  to  whomsoever  had  loved  her  once. 
As  her  lovers  in  early  days  had  been  many,  it 
follows  that  they  all  forgot  in  the  delight  of  remi- 
niscence any  harsh  judgments  she  had  received. 


IX 

THE    CROWNING    PROOF 

The  week  went  its  way  without  further  miracle ; 
but  Verona  had  supped  full  of  miracles,  and  had 
need  to  digest.  The  signs  and  wonders  she  had 
witnessed,  as  one  soul,  in  the  church  of  the  Car- 
melites had  been  so  astonishing  that  you  will 
easily  understand  how  all  little  differences  be- 
tween order  and  order  were  forgotten.  The  root 
of  disturbance  —  Vanna  and  her  baby,  Fra  Battista 
and  his  luxurious  imaginings,  Baldassare  and  his 
addition  —  were  also  forgotten.  Baldassare  was 
at  Mantua,  Vanna  had  been  stoned  to  death 
("martyred"  was  now  the  word)  —  all  was  well. 
Fra  Battista  had  been  quietly  ridded  the  very 
next  morning :  unfrocked,  he  took  the  way  of  the 
Brenner  and  the  mountains,  and  Veronese  history 
knows  nothing  further  certainly  of  him.  It  is 
thought  he  may  have  got  so  far  as  Prague,  where 
at  any  rate  a  perfervid  preacher  called  Baptist 
von  Bern  was  burnt  for  heresy  in  the  year  1389 
—  a  spreader  of  anabaptistical  doctrines  he  was, 
Gospels  of  the  Spirit,  Philadelphianism,  and 
what  not.  Everything  settled  down  to  routine: 
Can  Signorio  to  tyranny  and  coquetting  with 
Visconti  of  Milan  (who  finally  swallowed  him 
up) ;  the  bishop  to  accommodating  the  claims  of 
God,  the  Pope,  and  his  temporal  lord,  to  those  of 

63 


64  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

salvation  and  his  stomach ;  and  in  like  manner  did 
every  person  in  this  narrative  after  his  kind. 

Then,  on  a  bright  morning  in  early  September, 
old  Baldassare  came  limping  up  the  Ponte  Navi 
with  his  pack  on  his  back,  paused  a  minute  on 
the  bridge,  as  his  habit  was,  to  look  down  on  the 
busy  laundresses  by  the  water,  spat  twice,  and 
so  doing  was  observed,  threw  a  cracked  "  Buon' 
giorno,  La  Testolina!"  over  the  side,  and  went 
on  his  slow  way  to  the  Via  Stella. 

It  was  still  very  early,  but  not  so  early  that 
Vanna  was  not  in  her  shop-door  sewing  and 
crooning  to  the  baby  on  her  lap.  She  heard  his 
step  the  moment  he  rounded  the  bottom  corner 
of  the  street,  blushed  prettily  from  neck  to  tem- 
ples, caught  up  the  child,  and  went  out  to  meet 
her  lord.  Standing  before  him  in  her  cool  cotton 
gown,  there  was  no  sun  in  the  dusky  place  but 
what  her  halo  of  hair  made,  no  warmth  but  that 
of  her  welcoming  mouth.  Half  shyly  she  stopped, 
holding  up  the  baby  for  him  to  see :  it  was  not 
for  her  to  make  advances,  you  must  understand ; 
but  it  needed  no  magic  to  make  one  believe  that 
what  a  man's  wife  should  be  to  a  man  that  was 
young  Monna  Vanna  to  her  rag-picker.  Bal- 
dassare blinked  and  tried  to  look  harassed ;  the 
next  minute  he  had  pinched  Vanna's  cheek.  She 
put  the  baby  into  his  wiry  old  arms  —  a  very 
right  move  of  hers. 

"  Eh,  bambinaccio"  he  muttered,  highly  pleased, 
"  it  is  good  to  see  thee  !  So  thou  art  come  out  to 
meet  thy  old  dad  —  thou  and  thy  little  rogue  of  a 
mother  ?  Come,  the  pair  of  ye,  and  see  what  my 
pack  has  in  store." 


MADONNA  OF  THE   PEACH-TREE  65 

The  baby  crowed  and  bubbled,  Vanna  nested 
her  arm  closer  in  his  ribs,  and  the  trio  went  into 
the  house. 

A  keen  shot  from  one  eye  sufficed  to  assure 
the  old  fellow  that  as  well  as  a  little  beauty  he 
had  a  domestic  treasure  to  wife.  The  house  was 
as  fresh  as  her  cheeks,  as  trim  as  her  shape. 
"  Now  the  saints  be  good  to  this  city  of  Verona," 
said  he,  "  as  to  me  they  have  proved  not  amiss." 
This  was  great  praise  from  Baldassare ;  his  gen- 
erosity gave  it  point.  From  his  pack  came  a  pair 
of  earrings — wagging,  tinkling  affairs  of  silver  and 
coral ;  next  some  portentous  pins,  shining  globes 
like  prickly  pears ;  a  coral  and  bells  for  Master 
Niccola,  and  a  sca/dmo  of  pierced  brass  for  the 
adornment  of  the  house.  "  Thank  you,  Baldas- 
sare," said  Vanna  to  her  blinking  old  master; 
then  she  kissed  him.  Before  she  knew  where  she 
was,  before  she  could  say  "  Gia !  "  he  put  his  arm 
round  her  and  whispered  in  her  ear.  Then  she 
clung  to  him,  sobbing,  laughing,  breathing  quick; 
and  the  rest  it  were  profanation  to  report. 

Verona  rubbed  its  eyes  as  it  came  out  yawn- 
ing to  its  daily  work.  There  was  the  open  shop, 
ever  the  first  in  the  street;  there  the  padrone; 
there,  by  the  manger  of  Bethlehem,  were  the 
padrona  and  the  baby,  whom  they  had  last  seen 
huddling  from  their  stones.  Vanna  wore  her 
colours  that  morning ;  she  was  rosy  like  the  dawn, 
she  was  smiling,  she  had  very  bright  eyes.  But 
there  was  a  happy  greeting  for  man  or  wife  who 
looked  her  way;  and  when  La  Testolina  came 
peeping  to  behold  the  discomfiture  of  Baldassare, 
Vanna's  gay  looks   found    her   out,  and  "  Buon' 


66  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

giorno,  La  Testolina,"  came  more  cheerfully  from 
her  than  it  had  come  from  her  husband  on  the 
bridge.  All  the  little  woman  could  do  was  to 
squat  upon  the  threshold  at  her  friend's  feet  and 
pretend  that  she  was  troubled  with  spasms. 

The  crowning  proof  remains  to  be  told.  As 
La  Testolina  (who  blazed  the  story  abroad)  is 
reported  to  have  said,  you  might  have  drummed 
the  guard  out  with  her  heart-beats.  Vanna,  by 
way  of  weaning  her  baby,  it  seems,  was  tempting 
him  with  gobbets  of  peach  from  a  wine-glass. 
She  bit  a  corner  from  the  peach  and  tendered 
it  in  her  lips  to  the  youngster  on  her  lap.  The 
baby  (a  vigorous  child)  made  a  snap  at  it  like 
a  trout  at  a  fly,  and  a  gulp  so  soon  as  he  had 
it.  The  peach  was  hard,  the  morsel  had  many 
corners,  —  went  down  bristling,  as  it  were.  Cola 
had  his  first  stomach-ache,  was  hurt,  was  mis- 
erable, prepared  to  howl.  At  that  moment  La 
Testolina  happened  to  look  at  him :  she  stared, 
she  gasped,  she  reeled  against  the  door-post. 

"  Hey,  Mother  of  Jesus !  "  she  cried ;  "  look  at 
the  baby !  " 

"  It  was  a  corner-piece,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Vanna, 
with  great  calmness ;  "  but  the  natural  juices  will 
thaw  it." 

"  No,  no,  no !  It  is  not  that,  woman,"  her  friend 
went  on  feverishly — "  it  is  not  that!  Look  at  his 
face,  look  at  his  face !  " 

Vanna  looked.  "  Well,"  she  asked,  "  what  of 
his  face  ?  " 

The  bambino,  to  express  his  agony,  was  grin- 
ning from  ear  to  ear. 

This  was  the  last  miracle  wrought  by  Madonna 
of  the  Peach-Tree. 


IPPOLITA  IN  THE  HILLS 


THE    GLORIOUS    IPPOLITA 

Almighty  God,  that  supreme  Architect,  Who, 
alone  among  craftsmen,  knows  when  to  give  and 
when  to  stay  the  rein,  has  chosen  the  Plain  of 
Emilia  to  be,  as  it  were,  the  garden  of  Italy,  a 
garden  set  apart  betwixt  Alp  and  Apennine  to 
be  adorned  within  a  garden ;  has  filled  it  with 
every  sort  of  fruit  and  herb  and  flowering  tree ; 
has  watered  it  abundantly  with  noble  rivers; 
neither  stinted  it  of  deep  shade  nor  removed  it 
too  far  from  the  timely  stroke  of  the  sun ;  has 
caused  it,  finally,  to  be  graced  here  and  enriched 
there  with  divers  great  and  grave  cities.  Man, 
who  has  it  not  in  him  to  be  thrifty  in  so  prodigal 
a  midst,  has  here  also  thought  it  lawful  to  go  free. 
Out  of  that  lake  of  rustling  leaves  rise,  like  the 
masts  of  ships  crowding  a  port,  church-towers,  the 
belfries  of  pious  convents,  the  domes  and  turrets 
of  great  buildings  walled  into  cities.  Among 
which,  prized  as  they  all  are  and  honourably  addi- 
tioned  —  Vicenza,  Treviso,  Mantua,  Verona,  Fer- 
rara,  —  there  is  none  more  considerable  than 
Padua,  root  of  learning  and  grey  cupolas,  chosen 

67 


68  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

to   be   the   last   resting-place   of   Antenor,  King 
Priam's  brother,  and  the  first  of  Titus  Livy. 

It  is  of  Padua  that  I  am  now  called  upon  to 
report  certain  matters  which  may  seem  strange 
to  one  who  does  not  know  her  well :  to  the  others, 
verbum  satis.  Whether  it  is  their  University 
(too  famous,  perhaps,  for  so  quiet  a  place)  or  the 
suspiration  of  their  greatest  citizen  which  has 
kindled  their  wits ;  whether  that  cauldron  of 
brick,  the  Santo,  bubbling  with  silver  domes,  is 
the  stem  or  flower  of  their  exaltation;  whether 
their  seat  at  the  head  of  a  sun-steeped  marsh  (at 
whose  mouth  is  Venice)  hath  itself  unseated  them; 
whether  Petrarch  set  boiling  what  Saint  Antony 
could  not  allay ;  what  it  was,  how  it  was,  who 
gave  them  the  wrench,  I  know  not  —  but  the  fact 
is  that  the  people  of  Padua  have  been  as  freakish 
a  race  as  any  in  Italy ;  at  the  mercy  of  any  head 
but  the  aggregate's,  pack-mules  of  a  notion,  galley- 
slaves  of  a  whim,  driven  hither  and  thither  in  a 
herd,  like  those  restless  leaves  (souls  once)  whose 
nearer  sight  first  made  Dante  pitiful.  Not  that 
they,  for  their  part,  asked  for  pity  or  got  it. 
Mostly  they  paid  their  tavern  bills  when  the  last 
cup  had  been  drained  and  the  last  chorus  led. 
When  Ezzelin  was  master  of  the  revels  they 
paid  in  blood :  that  tower  of  his  by  the  river  is 
dark  with  it  yet.  Petrarch  from  his  mountain- 
vineyard  at  Arqua  tipped  them  a  brighter  stave : 
they  broke  their  hearts  for  pretty  women  and  had 
every  one  the  comfort  of  a  swanlike  end,  since 
sonnets  are  a  knack.  With  Antony  they  flagel- 
lated, with  Carrara  defended  walls,  with  Gatteme- 
lata   knocked   them   down.     Then    Venice  took 


IPPOLITA   IN  THE   HILLS  69 

what  Padua  could  never  keep ;  the  Euganeans 
hailed  on  either  side  the  Lion  of  Saint  Mark  ;  the 
Arts  flourished ;  Squarcione  cut  out  small-clothes 
and  taught  anatomy  none  the  worse ;  Mantegna 
dreamed  of  Julius  Caesar,  smouldering  while  he 
dreamed ;  and  Ippolita,  the  stone-mason's  daugh- 
ter, from  too  much  courting  fled  in  breeches  to 
the  hills.  She,  like  all  the  Padovani,  paid  her 
score  without  flinching.  It  may  have  been  run 
up  without  leave  asked,  but  it  was  run  up  in  her 
name.  The  rule  in  Padua  was  so.  I  never  heard 
that  she  repined.  Maybe  that  she  had  her 
money's  worth ;  but  of  that  you  will  be  able  to 
judge  as  well  as  I. 

Padua  is  a  city  set  in  meadows  full  of  light ;  it 
is  well  spaced,  plentifully  watered,  arcaded,  green 
with  gardens.  The  streets  are  like  cloister- 
walks  ;  as  in  Lucca,  the  plane  is  the  sacred  tree, 
and  next  to  that  flag  of  green  on  a  silver  staff, 
the  poplar  shows  the  city  blushful  in  the  spring 
and  thrilling  all  a  summer  with  the  memory.  It 
is  a  place  of  brick  and  marble,  painted  orange, 
brown,  yellow,  and  warm  white,  where  every  cor- 
ner-stone and  every  twig  is  printed  sharply  on  a 
sky  of  morning  blue. 

"  Quivi  le  mura  son  fatte  con  arte, 
Che  parlano,  e  rispondono  a  i  parlanti." 

A  tale  of  Padua  should  have  the  edge  of  a  cut 
gem.     So  let  Ippolita's  be  told. 

In  her  day  —  that  day  when,  at  sixteen  years 
old  or  so,  the  sun  briefly  lit  upon  her  golden 
head  and  showed  her  for  the  lovely  girl  she  was 
—  Padua  was  passing  through  a  time  of  peace. 


7o  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY  ch. 

Novello  was  dead  at  last,  poor  heroic  gentleman, 
Verona  was  shaken  off;  Venice  was  supreme  — 
easy,  but  unquestionably  mistress  of  the  Emilia. 
There  was  time  to  make  madrigals,  to  make  eyes, 
to  make  love,  to  imagine  portraits.  Mantegna 
was  painting  giants  in  the  Eremitani  and  Bellini 
picking  his  brains,  but  not  as  yet  a  quarrel.  The 
classics,  the  ingenuous  arts,  lovely  woman  — 
always  interwoven  when  times  are  happiest  — 
flourished  in  that  sunny  place :  it  was  not  really 
wonderful  that  Ippolita  the  stone-cutter's  daugh- 
ter, classically  fair,  indisputably  a  beauty,  should 
win  all  seeing  eyes  and  be  the  despair  of  all 
rhymers.  Given  the  vision  to  the  visionary  (and 
both  came  in  their  time),  she  might  be  trusted 
with  the  rest;  for  she  was  remarkable  by  con- 
trast; there  were  none  like  her.  The  Paduan 
girls  are  all  charming,  and  mostly  pretty.  Ippo- 
lita was  neither :  she  was  beautiful,  and  when  you 
came  to  know  her  face,  lovely.  They  are  brown, 
she  was  fair;  they  are  little,  she  was  very  tall. 
They  have  eyes  like  a  dove's,  glossed  brown ; 
hers  were  deeply  blue,  the  colour  of  the  Adriatic 
when  a  fleeting  cloud  spreads  a  curtain  of  hya- 
cinth over  the  sheeted  turquoise  bed.  Beauti- 
fully hued  in  mingled  red  and  white,  delicately 
shaped,  pliant,  supple,  and  shy,  such  as  she  was 
(an  honest,  good  girl,  Heaven  knows !)  she  might 
have  lived  and  died  in  her  alley  —  sweetheart 
of  some  half  dozen  decent  fellows,  wife  of  the 
most  masterful,  mother  of  a  dozen  brats,  unno- 
ticed save  for  her  qualities  of  cheerful  drudge  and 
brood-mare ;  beautiful  as  a  spring  leaf  till  twenty, 
ripe  as  a  peach  on  the  wall  till  thirty,  keen-faced 


I  IPPOLITA   IN   THE   HILLS  71 

and  wise,  mother  and  grandmother  at  forty ;  and 
so  on  —  such  she  might  have  lived  and  died,  and 
been  none  the  worse  for  her  reclusion,  had  she 
not  leaned  more  than  half  out  of  her  window  in 
the  Vicolo  one  bright  April  morning  of  her  six- 
teenth year,  to  exchange  lively  banter  with  a  friend 
below,  and  been  seen  by  Messer  Alessandro  del 
Dardo,  who  within  the  cuirass  of  Sub-Prefect  of 
Padua  nourished  the  heart  of  an  approved  Poet ; 
been  seen  of  him  for  the  miracle  of  young  beauty 
she  really  was.  Chance  sparks  kindle  chance 
tinder ;  and  so  here.  I  am  far  from  alleging  the 
heart  of  Messer  Alessandro  to  be  dry  tow ;  but 
I  do  repeat  it,  Padua  was  a  freakish  cityful, 
Ippolita  lovely  exceedingly,  amorous  poetry  in 
the  air. 

He,  then,  passing  by,  saw  her  stoop  flushed 
and  sparkling  from  above  him ;  the  sun  caught 
her  shining  hair;  a  loose  white  smock  revealed 
so  much  of  her  neck  as  to  picture  him  the  snowy 
rest.  Snow  and  rosebuds  —  O  ye  little  gods! 
As  he  stood  in  ecstasy  she  saw  him  at  the  end  of 
the  lane,  and  blushing  drew  back  with  a  finger  in 
her  mouth,  to  thrill  and  giggle  at  ease.  She 
saw  a  great  gentleman  stare;  he  saw  a  rosy  god- 
dess stoop  and  laugh,  then  blush  and  hide.  Vitas 
hinnuleo  me  sinzilis,  Chloe !  Away  he  went,  his 
heart  leaping  like  a  wood-fire,  to  report  to  Me- 
leagro  de'  Martiri  and  Stazio  Orsini,  to  Donna 
Euforbia,  Donna  Clarice,  and  Donna  Simpatica 
—  friends  and  poets  alike  —  that  he  had  had  a 
most  rare  vision. 

"  To  me  it  seems,"  he  said,  "  that  that  fair- 
haired  daughter  of  the  Greeks,  Madonna  Elena, 


72  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY  ch. 

the  slim,  the  rosy-fingered  disturber  of  the  repose 
of  cities,  hath  appeared  to  distract  this  our  city 
of  Padua.  Me  at  least  she  hath  distraught.  Fair 
friends,  sister  and  brother  poets,  you  shall  under- 
stand that  henceforth  I  devote  myself  to  this  lady 
and  her  praise.  More,  I  vow  a  vow,  and  call 
upon  you  to  register  it  in  the  Golden  Book  of 
the  Amorous  Gests  of  Padua,  that  I  will  never 
cut  my  nails  again  until  I  have  enthroned  her 
sovereign  lady  of  me,  and  of  you  all,  and  of  this 
our  humane  Commonwealth.  By  golden  Venus 
and  her  son,  by  Mars  armipotent  powerless  in 
such  toils,  and  by  Vulcan  in  chains  too  cunning 
for  his  pincers;  by  Saints  Ovid  and  Sappho,  the 
Chian,  the  Mantuan,  and  the  Veronese,  I  swear 
this  oath." 

"  It  is  well  done,  Alessandro,"  assented  the 
listening  company. 

That  evening  in  his  fellowship,  Meleagro  and 
Stazio,  cloaked  and  lurking  under  the  arcades, 
saw  Ippolita  walk  down  the  Via  Pozzo  Depinto 
arm  in  arm  with  two  shawled  friends,  trans- 
parently in  the  ranks  of  the  popol  basso,  but  as 
obviously  not  of  them.  Her  golden  head  was 
bare ;  also  by  a  head  she  sailed  above  them. 
They  followed  her  by  the  Via  Zitelle,  over  the 
Ponte  della  Morte,  further  yet,  between  garden 
walls  topped  with  lilac,  into  the  Prato  della  Valle. 
There  the  three  unconscious  girls  mingled  with 
the  concourse  of  those  who  took  the  air  under 
the  still  trees.  Ippolita,  that  slim,  tall  marvel, 
seemed  not  to  be  remarked  by  any ;  Alessandro, 
swooning  on  his  friend's  arms,  could  scarcely 
believe  it. 


I  IPPOLITA   IN  THE   HILLS  73 

"  Edge  up,  Alessandro,  edge  up  —  accost, 
accost ! "  said  Meleagro  ;    but  — 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  profane  the  aura  of 
her  by  my  abhorred  presence  ? "  cried  the  lover. 
"  Ah,  God  of  Love,  I  would  die  sooner !  I  feel, 
indeed,  my  Daemon  at  work.  Let  me  sit  upon 
this  bench  —  my  tablets,  ha  !  "  He  sat.  Finely 
disordered  verse,  rime  sciolte,  resulted;  but  Ippo- 
lita  was  so  far  unperturbed. 

Gradually,  however,  it  came  to  her  notice  that 
she  was  watched.  There  was  singing  under  her 
windows  at  night ;  the  day  brought  parties  of 
noble  youths  into  the  Vicolo  scarlet-capped, 
feathered,  slashed,  and  booted  youths ;  ladies 
were  with  them  as  often  as  not ;  garlanded  ladies 
with  square-cut  bodices  showing  half  their 
bosoms ;  flowers  came,  verses,  platters  of  Urbino, 
Gubbio,  Faenza.  She  was  saluted  in  the  street, 
followed  to  the  church -door,  waited  for  at  the 
coming  out  from  mass.  It  came,  more  or  less,  to 
this,  that  whenever  she  went  abroad  by  ways 
where  the  honourable  might  pass,  her  going 
resembled  that  of  the  processional  Host  rather 
than  of  a  respectable  young  woman.  Her  friends 
were  no  protection :  the  girls  thought  it  fun, 
courted  it,  found  stuff  in  it  for  giggling  and 
peering  with  the  eyes  into  dark  corners ;  the  lads 
of  her  station  shrugged  at  it,  then  sulked,  and  at 
last  fairly  fought  shy  of  such  a  conspicuous  mate. 

Ippolita  herself  tried  to  laugh  it  off,  but  failed 
absurdly.     She  became  plaintive. 

"  What  do  these  signori  mean  by  their  my- 
ladying? "  she  cried  to  Annina  her  bosom  friend. 
"  Why  do  they  send  me  these  things  ?     Platters ! 


74 


LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY  ch. 


What  use  are  platters  to  the  likes  of  us,  who  as 
often  as  not  have  nothing  to  put  on  them  ? " 

Annina  looked  demurely.  "  It  is  easy  to  see 
what  they  want  of  thee,  dearest.  What  does  a 
gentleman  always  want  of  a  poor  girl  that  takes 
his  fancy  ? " 

Ippolita  tossed  her  high  head. 

"  Eh  ! "  she  snapped.  "  They  may  fill  the  house 
with  crockery  at  that  rate.     I'm  not  rubbish !  " 

She  was  not ;  but  she  wronged  her  adorers,  who 
neither  thought  it  nor  hoped  it  of  her.  Messer 
Alessandro  was  not  growing  his  nails  for  that 
sort  of  ware ;  nor  could  he  have  treated  the  Pope 
with  more  respect.  He  had  never  ventured  to 
speak,  though  he  had  never  failed  to  salute  her. 
What  he  wrote  was  chiefly  in  verse,  and  as 
Ippolita  could  not  read,  it  really  did  not  much 
matter  what  his  letters  contained.  Meleagro  had 
opened  his  mouth  to  pay  her  a  compliment :  he 
won  a  frightened  look  out  of  her  blue  eyes,  a 
fine  blush,  and  lived  upon  them  for  a  week. 
The  ladies  were  bolder.  Some  of  them  had 
walked  with  her  once  in  the  Prato.  There  was 
very  little  to  say,  except  that  they  loved  her  and 
thought  her  like  a  goddess.  Ippolita  was  rather 
scared,  laughed  nervously,  and  said,  "  Chi  lo  sa  ? " 
Donna  Euforbia  then  told  her  the  story  of  the 
original  Ippolita,  the  Scythian  queen ;  of  King 
Theseus,  and  the  child  born  to  them  in  sea- 
washed  Acharnae.  The  Paduan  Ippolita  said 
"  Gia !  "  several  times,  and  asked  if  her  namesake 
was  a  good  Catholic.  Finding  she  was  not,  she 
took  no  further  interest  in  her  fortunes  than  to 
suppose  her  deep  in    hell   for   her   pains.     The 


I  IPPOLITA   IN   THE   HILLS  75 

ladies  asked  her  to  come  and  be  their  queen ;  she 
said  she  couldn't  leave  her  father.  They  offered 
her  jewels  for  her  hair,  neck,  fingers,  wrists, 
ankles ;  she  laughed,  and  said  that  they  were  not 
for  the  likes  of  her.  They  spoke  of  Alessandro, 
the  Poet.  She  asked  if  he  were  any  relation  to 
the  Signor  Sotto-Prefetto.  He  was  that  same, 
said  they. 

"  Dio  buono  !  "  cried  Ippolita.  "  Is  he  the  gen- 
tleman who  wants  to  undo  me  ?  " 

They  were  shocked.  "  He  asks  no  more  than 
to  sit  at  your  feet,  Ippolita,  and  read  the  secrets 
of  your  beautiful  eyes.  It  is  your  soul  he  loves ; 
he  asks  nothing  of  your  body."  "  They  never  do, 
Madonna,"  said  Ippolita;  "but  I  am  a  poor  girl, 
so  please  you,  who  have  to  look  every  way  at 
once,  as  the  saying  is.  Domeneddio  is  the  only 
Signore  I  ever  heard  tell  of  who  could  get  on 
with  people's  souls.  Men  want  more  of  us  than 
that." 

Protests  were  wasted,  and  Alessandro,  watchful 
of  his  nails,  went  mad  in  numbers.  This  it  was 
to  be  tall  out  of  common,  this  to  lift  up  in  dark- 
browed  Padua  a  brave  golden  head ;  this  to  carry 
the  bosom  of  an  Oread  beneath  the  smock  of  a 
girl  in  her  teens ;  this,  merciful  Heaven,  to  be  a 
vortex  when  poets  are  swirling  down  the  stream 
of  Time. 


II 

MESSER   ALESSANDRO   THINKS   TO   CUT   HIS   NAILS 

Not  to  weary  you,  it  is  clear  that  Ippolita  was 
the  fashion.  The  poets,  the  courtiers,  the  painters, 
of  whom,  in  that  age  of  peace,  Padua  was  full,  were 
wild  about  this  glowing  girl,  this  sumptuous 
nymph  of  the  Via  Agnus  Dei ;  they  were  melo- 
diously, caperingly,  symphonically  wild,  according 
to  their  bents.  She  saw  herself  on  plates  of 
faience,  where  the  involutions  of  a  ribbon  revealed 
"  Ippolita  Bella "  to  the  patient  eye ;  she  found 
herself  (or  they  found  her)  an  inordinate  tri-sylla- 
ble  for  a  canzone,  saw  her  colours  of  necessity 
reproduced  on  her  lover's  legs  and  shoulders  as 
colours  of  election.  One  by  one  she  could  ap- 
praise her  own  possessions,  and  those  they  fabled 
of  her.  Her  hair  was  Demeter's  crown  of  ripe 
corn  —  she  knew  nothing  of  the  lady,  but  hoped 
for  the  best.  Her  eyes  were  dark  blue  lakes  in  a 
field  of  snow  —  this  she  thought  very  fine.  Her 
lips  were  the  amorous  petals  of  a  rose  that  needs 
must  kiss  each  other ;  kissing,  they  made  a  folded 
flower  —  ah ! 

"  La  virtu  della  bocca, 
Che  sana  ci6  che  tocca," 

sighed  the  poets.    But,  bless  her  good  innocence ! 
that   sweet   mouth   had   touched   nothing   more 

76 


ch.  ii  IPPOLITA   IN  THE  HILLS  77 

mannish  than  her  father's  forehead  or  the  feet  of 
the  Crucified.  Her  cheeks,  said  they,  were  apple- 
blossoms  budded,  her  neck  the  stem  of  a  chalice, 
her  breast  —  but  I  spare  your  blushes,  though 
they  never  spared  hers.  There  is  a  book,  "  Gli 
Ornamenti  delle  Donne,"  which  will  tell  you  what 
that  bastion  of  a  fair  girl  should  be ;  and  what  it 
should  be  those  Paduan  lyrists  will  more  than 
assure  you  Ippolita's  was.  Thus  passionately  they 
fingered  every  part,  dwelling  here,  touching  there, 
with  no  word  that  was  not  a  caress.  What  she 
had  not,  too,  they  gave  her  —  the  attributes  she 
sowed  in  them.  She  was  "vagha,"  since  they 
longed ;  "  lontana,"  since  she  kept  them  at  a  dis- 
tance ;  "  nascosa,"  since  they  drove  her  to  it ; 
cold,  since  she  dared  not  be  warm. 

The  painters,  not  to  be  behind,  expressed  what 
the  others  hinted.  She  saw  herself,  first,  as 
Daphne  behind  a  laurel-bush  —  the  artist,  kneel- 
ing in  the  open,  offered  his  heart  smoking  upon 
a  dish ;  second,  as  Luna,  standing  in  shrouded 
white  on  a  crescent  moon  —  the  artist,  as  Endym- 
ion,  asleep  in  a  rocky  landscape,  waiting  to  be 
kissed ;  third,  as  Leda,  naked  in  reeds  beside  her 
pair  of  eggs  —  the  plumed  artist  near  by,  ruffling 
and  flapping  his  wings.  Luckily  their  allusive- 
ness  escaped  her ;  she  knew  nothing  of  the  diver- 
sions of  the  ancient  gods. 

But  of  all  the  vantage  she  gave  them,  none 
equalled  that  for  which  her  gossips  should  have 
answered,  her  most  commendable  name  of  Ippo- 
lita.  The  verses  she  received  on  that  theme 
would  have  made  a  Tkeseid,  those  she  had  to  hear 
would   have  kept   the  rhapsodists  for  a  twelve- 


78  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY  ch. 

month,  those  she  saw  the  very  Sala  del  Consiglio 
could  not  have  contained.  Ippolita  at  war  with 
the  Athenian,  or  leading  her  Amazons  afield ; 
Ippolita  turning  her  unmaimed  side  to  an  adoring 
warrior  (the  painter)  and  you,  or  suckling  Ippolita 
(with  the  artist's  strongly  marked  features)  in  an 
ivied  ruin  with  peacocks  about  it ;  Ippolita  in  a 
colonnade  at  Athens  on  the  right  hand  of  the 
king  —  thus  she  saw  herself  daily;  thus  the  old 
palace  walls  of  Padua,  if  they  could  yield  up  their 
tinged  secrets  through  the  coats  of  lime,  would 
show  her  rosy  limbs  and  crowned  head.  Man- 
tegna  has  her  armoured  with  greaves  to  the  knee 
and  spiked  cups  on  her  breastplate.  Gian  Bellini 
carried  her  to  Venice,  to  lead  Scythians  in  trousers 
against  Theseus  in  plate-armour  and  a  blazoned 
shield.  Giorgione  set  her  burning  in  the  shade, 
trying  to  cool  her  golden  flank  in  deep  mosses 
by  a  well. 

All  this,  and  much  more,  Ippolita  endured  be- 
cause she  was  a  good  as  well  as  a  beautiful  girl. 
Sometimes  she  wept  in  a  friend's  arms,  some- 
times (really  frightened)  she  sought  her  parish 
priest ;  mostly  it  was  the  wonder-working  Virgin 
in  Sant'  Antonio  or,  at  the  greatest  stress,  the 
Saint's  own  black  sarcophagus  in  the  lighted 
chapel,  to  lay  upon  it  a  feverish  palm  or  hot,  in- 
dignant cheek.  By  some  such  aids  as  these  she 
preserved  entire  her  head,  her  heart,  all  her  pre- 
cious store,  so  that  no  flattery  ever  tarnished  the 
clear  glass  of  her  mind,  no  assaults,  however 
fierce,  could  bruise  the  root  of  modesty  within 
her. 

Her  father,  vexed  man,  at  first  felt  the  glory 


II 


IPPOLITA   IN  THE   HILLS  79 


of  his  daughter,  shone  by  her  reflected  light, 
guessed  (and  had  reasonable  grounds  for  guess- 
ing) the  profit  it  might  be;  but  lastly,  seeing 
the  suitors  sought  not  to  marry  her,  and  she 
would  do  no  less,  he  grew  disgusted  with  so 
windy  a  business,  beat  her  for  what  was  no  fault 
of  hers,  and  bade  her  be  sold  or  begone.  Ippo- 
lita,  who  began  her  day's  processioning  with 
music  and  flowers,  ended  it  mostly  in  tears  and 
stripes.  There  seemed  no  escape.  If  she  went 
to  draw  water  at  the  well  the  courtiers  jostled  for 
her  first  salutation ;  if  she  went  to  mass  in  the 
grey  of  the  morning,  so,  blinking,  did  they.  The 
priest  who  confessed  her  paid  her  compliments, 
the  blind  beggar  at  the  church  door  looked  at 
her  out  of  one  eye.  She  was  incredibly  the 
fashion ;  and  the  women,  far  from  being  jealous, 
were  as  wild  about  her  as  the  men.  She  could 
have  had  a  Court  of  Virgins,  or  gone  like  Artemis, 
buskined  through  the  thickets,  with  a  hundred 
high-girdled  nymphs  behind  her,  all  for  her  sake 
locked  in  chastity.  They  also  made  her  presents, 
which  her  father  sold,  until  (learning  to  fear  the 
Greeks,  their  brothers)  she  gently  forbore  them. 
Whereupon  the  honest  stonemason  had  fresh 
cause  for  chastisement  of  so  incalculably  calcu- 
lating a  child. 

The  hunted  fair  at  last  came  to  a  point  where 
she  must  stand  or  deliver.  From  three  desperate 
lovers  there  seemed  no  sure  road.  All  that  was 
possible  she  did.  She  consulted  her  priest;  he 
patted  her  cheek.  A  very  old  woman  of  her 
intimacy  advised  her  to  look  in  the  glass;  she 
did,  and  blushed  at  her  own  distressful  face.     A 


80  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY  ch. 

friar  of  the  order  of  Saint  Francis  plumply  told 
her  to  choose  the  most  solid  of  her  pursuers  and 
make  the  most  of  him.  "  Such  roses  as  yours,  my 
daughter,"  said  he,  "should  be  early  to  market. 
You  are  sixteen  now ;  but  remember  that  by  the 
mercy  of  Heaven  you  may  live  to  be  six  and 
sixty.  That's  the  time  when  the  pot  wants  lining. 
If  you  have  not  the  experience,  pray  how  are  you 
to  direct  the  young  in  the  way  they  should  go  ? 
Yet  that  is  the  trade  for  an  old  lady  whose  life 
has  been  an  easy  one.  For  my  part,  I  regret 
that  the  rules  of  our  convent  do  not  allow  me 
to  open  the  gate." 

She  pouted,  and  went  out  into  the  sun  again, 
to  find  her  way  to  the  Santo  barred.  The  three 
poets,  with  three  lutes,  were  singing  a  madrigal 
in  her  honour.  They  were  understood  to  say 
that  her  going  was  over  the  tired  bodies  of 
lovers,  that  she  went  girdled  with  red  hearts, 
that  her  breast  was  cold  ivory,  and  her  own 
heart  carved  in  ice.  Nymph  rhymed  with  lymph 
and  Ippolita  with  insolita ;  the  whole,  ingenious 
as  it  was,  was  not  ad  rem;  and  as  for  the 
poor  subject  of  it  all,  her  heart  (far  from  being 
ice)  was  hot  with  mutiny.  She  knew  herself 
for  a  simpleton  —  just  a  poor  girl ;  she  knew  her- 
self made  ridiculous  by  this  parade;  could  see 
herself  as  she  was.  Her  crisping  hair  was  over 
her  ears  and  knotted  behind  her  neck,  without 
garland  or  fillet  or  so  much  as  a  brass  pin ;  her 
green  dress,  though  it  was  low  in  the  neck,  was 
tightly  drawn  over  her  bust ;  for  what  were  glori- 
ous to  be  shown  in  a  great  lady,  in  her  had  been 
an  immodesty.     When  she  lifted  her  skirt  out  of 


II 


IPPOLITA   IN  THE   HILLS  81 


the  gutter  you  could  see  some  inches  of  bare  leg. 
Her  hands  were  brown  with  work,  though  her 
neck  was  like  warm  marble  in  the  sun.  Eh,  she 
knew  herself  through  and  through  just  a  low- 
born wench ;  and  "  O  Gesu  Re ! "  her  heart 
cried  within  her,  "  why  can  they  not  leave  me 
alone ! " 

The  three  poets  —  Stazio  Orsini  in  white  and 
yellow,  Alessandro  del  Dardo  in  white  and  green, 
and  Meleagro  de'  Martiri  in  a  plum-coloured 
cloak  —  accompanied  her  down  the  Via  Pozzo 
Depinto  to  her  poor  house  in  the  quarter  of 
Santa  Caterina;  she  lived  in  the  Vicolo  Agnus 
Dei.  To  their  florid  exercises  in  the  language  of 
courts  she  replied  in  monosyllables  —  "Sissign- 
ore,"  "  Grazie,  Signore,"  or  "  Servo  suo " ;  the 
humble  words  were  as  much  her  daily  use  as 
Padre  nostro  or  Ave  Maria.  At  the  door  she 
must  have  her  hand  kissed  three  times  in  face 
of  the  nudging  neighbours;  and  to  each  salute 
her  honesty  prompted  a  fresh  "  Grazie,  Signore," 
a  curtsy,  and  a  profound  blush.  Meleagro  beat 
his  forehead  to  see  her  so  lovely  and  so  unap- 
proachable; Orsini  bit  his  lip;  but  Alessandro, 
mindful  of  his  nails,  and  not  to  be  Sub-Prefect 
for  nothing,  went  away  to  find  the  girl's  father. 

This  worthy  bowed  to  the  earth  before  his 
visitor.  In  what  way  could  His  Excellency  be 
served?  By  the  acceptance,  on  Matteo's  part, 
of  twenty  ducats  ?     Benissimo,  e  tante  grazie ! 

"  Matteo,"  said  the  Sub-Prefect,  when  this  little 
transfer  was  accomplished,  "  your  daughter  is  the 
most  beautiful  lady  in  all  this  city  of  Padua." 

"  She  is  a  choice  thing,  I  own  it,"  said  the  good 


82  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

Matteo ;  "  and  how  dear  to  her  old  father  your 
honour  hath  no  notion." 

"  I  can  very  well  imagine  it,"  returned  Messer 
Alessandro;  "and,  indeed,  I  remember  that  you 
are  twenty  ducats  in  hand." 

"  Oh,  va  bene,  va  bene  !  "  cried  Matteo.  "  I  am 
your  Excellency's  humble  servant.  You  shall 
take  her  when  you  like  and  as  you  like." 

"  All  will  be  done  scrupulously,"  Alessandro 
said  with  fervour.  "  We  shall  crown  her  Queen 
of  our  College  of  the  Muses ;  she  shall  be  priest- 
ess, sacred  image,  and  oracle ;  and  most  hon- 
ourably served." 

"  Honour  of  course,"  said  Matteo,  "comes  into 
the  game.  I  have  played  it  myself,  and  know 
what  I  am  talking  about.  There  was  Beppina, 
that  fat  Venetian  hussy  —  to  see  her  eat !  But 
she  always  had  her  whack.  Eh,  I  have  been  a 
blade  in  my  day !  " 

To  this  testimony  the  Sub-Prefect  had  no 
comments  ready.  He  returned  to  the  object  of 
his  thought. 

"  We  shall  in  turn  contemplate  her  excellence," 
he  explained,  "  and  derive  inspirations  in  turn. 
A  fine  body  of  devotional  rhyme  should  be  the 
result  of  this." 

"  The  result,"  Matteo  broke  in,  "  will  be  a  fine 
one,  I  warrant  your  Excellency,  if  such  things  as 
that  are  in  your  mind  —  and  call  it  what  you  will, 
she's  as  healthy  as  ever  her  mother  was.  And 
she  had  seventeen  of  'em,  one  way  with  another, 
before  I  buried  her." 

"  She  shall  be  crowned  with  stars,  rest  upon  beds 
of  roses,  walk  in  flowery  meadows,  hide  from  the 


IPPOLITA   IN   THE   HILLS  S3 

heat  in  thickets  where  water  is  — "  Alessandro 
went  lilting  on.  "  We  will  sing  to  her  all  day,  and 
of  her  all  night.  The  saloon  of  the  Villa  Venusta 
shall  depict  the  story  of  her  glorious  arising." 

"  Pretty,  pretty ! "  cried  Matteo.  "  I  see  that 
your  honour  knows  the  rules  of  play.  Now 
when  shall  the  game  begin  ? " 

"  My  honest  friend,  the  litter  will  be  at  your 
door  come  daybreak,"  said  Alessandro.  "  Three 
noble  ladies  will  attend  Madonna  to  bathe  and 
dress  her.  After  that,  you  shall  leave  her  safely 
in  our  keeping." 

Matteo  bowed.  "  Excellency,  I  am  your  ser- 
vant.    Everything  shall  be  as  you  wish." 

He  did  not  add,  though  he  might  well  have 
added,  that  it  was  more  than  himself  had  dared 
to  hope  for. 

At  time  of  sunset  home  he  came,  but  not  to 
beat  his  beautiful  daughter.  On  the  contrary, 
he  made  much  of  her.  Fuddled  he  was,  but  not 
drunk.  He  took  her  incontinent  upon  his  knee 
and  began  to  deal  in  rather  liberal  innuendo. 
Divining  him  darkly,  she  went  to  work  with 
such  arts  as  she  had  to  wheedle  the  worst  out 
of  him. 

"  Carissimo  padre  "  —  so  she  coaxed  him,  with 
hands  interwoven  about  his  scrubby  face  —  "  tell 
me  more  of  this  gallantry  of  young  blades." 

"Chuck,  chuck,  chuck,"  he  babbled,  oozing 
wine,  "  come  and  feed  out  of  my  hand.  Bill  me, 
sweeting,  and  I  bill  thee.  Ho,  ho!  Two  doves 
on  a  branch!  What,  turtle?  Wilt  thou  mope 
for  ever  ? " 

She  trembled.     "  Nay,  nay,  I'll  mope  no  more, 


84  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

father,"  says  she.     "  But  do  thou  tell  me  who  my 
mate  is  to  be." 

Slyly  he  looked  at  her  burning  face  and  slyly 
kissed  it.     Then  he  began  to  sing  — 

"  Quell'  drudo,  Messer  Amore, 
Ha  scelto  un  Dardo  per  cuore  1 
Dardo  acerbo,  ardente, 
Che  fa  gridare  le  genti  — 
Ohime  !    Dolce  dolore  ! " 

She  had  been  a  fool  indeed  to  miss  such  a  rebus. 
So  the  peril  was  worse  than  her  dread !  The  lees 
of  twenty  ducats  shabby  in  his  fist  told  her  how 
near  the  peril  was. 

Going  to  bed,  he  folded  her  in  his  arms,  making 
her  prop  while  he  mumbled  comfort. 

"  It  is  all  for  the  best,  my  beauty-bright,"  he 
hiccoughed,  "all  clearly  for  the  best.  Messer 
Alessandro  is  a  lover  in  ten  thousand.  I  shall 
be  as  good  as  a  father-in-law  any  day  of  the 
week.  Why,  it's  '  My  honest  friend  '  that  he  hails 
me  already !  That  is  what  a  man  may  call  climb- 
ing up,  I  hope,  when  a  poetical  roaring  blade  cuts 
out  your  '  servo  suo '  in  that  fashion.  And  he's 
Sotto-Prefetto,  remember.  That  means  all  Padua 
yours  for  the  asking.  Sleep  sound,  my  pretty 
bird,  Ippolita  bella !  After  this  night  you  shall 
sleep  by  day."  So  he  found,  by  good  luck,  his 
bed,  and  she  a  time  for  tears. 


Ill 

THE   JEW   IN    THE    VIA    DELLA    GATTA 

If  there  is  not  much  to  be  said  for  the  Via 
della  Gatta  in  these  days  there  was  even  less 
when  Ippolita  was  the  reigning  toast.  It  was 
cloistered  (as  now),  it  was  cobbled,  shabby-white, 
secret,  blind ;  it  echoed  silence,  was  a  place  for 
slippering  crones,  for  furtive  cats,  and  the  smell 
of  garlic  and  charcoal  fires.  Of  nights,  by  the 
same  token,  it  was  not  the  place  to  choose  for  an 
after-supper  walk.  The  watch  used  to  go  through 
it  with  swords  before  and  daggers  behind.  Lan- 
terns were  little  use  save  to  reveal  the  cut-throat 
blackness  all  about. 

Now,  on  the  very  night  when  Matteo  was  fud- 
dled, Ippolita  in  tears,  Alessandro  in  a  fever,  and 
the  more  reputable  Padovani  turning  down  their 
beds,  the  watch  came  rattling  at  the  Sub-Prefect's 
door  to  report  a  dead  Jew  in  the  Via  della  Gatta. 
Of  all  nights  in  the  year,  this,  the  eve  of  the 
Glorious  Ippolita's  home-bringing,  to  be  vexed  by 
a  dead  Jew !  Messer  Alessandro  was  exceedingly 
annoyed. 

"  Take  your  accursed  Jew,"  he  said  to  the  lieu- 
tenant, "  and  stuff  him  underground.  I  am  busy, 
I  am  absorbed  in  work.     When  I  have  leisure  I 

85 


86  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

will  attend  to  him.  You  can  dig  him  up  again. 
And  I  take  this  opportunity  to  tell  you,  Lieuten- 
ant, that  your  visit  is  most  inopportune.  For 
six  months  you  have  brought  me  nothing  of  the 
sort,  and  to-night,  for  example,  you  plump  a  Jew 
on  my  doorstep.  Bury  your  beastly  Jew  and 
leave  me  in  peace." 

"  But,  Excellency,"  stammered  the  Lieutenant, 
"  your  Excellency  will  see  that  I  have  no  control 
over  the  assassins  of  Padua.  This  Jew  has  not 
died  happily.  There  is  a  great  hole  under  his 
ribs.     He  is  scarcely  cold  yet." 

"  That  is  soon  remedied,"  said  Alessandro;  "  put 
him  in  the  ground." 

"  But,  Excellency,  a  murdered  Jew,  a  Jew  in 
holes  —  " 

"  The  Jews  have  been  damned  from  the  begin- 
ning of  our  dispensation,"  cried  the  Sub-Prefect 
in  a  rage.  "  Well,  I  add  my  malediction.  I  say, 
Damn  your  Jew !  "  And  he  shut  the  door  in  the 
face  of  the  watch. 

The  Lieutenant  was  hungry.  If  his  chief  could 
damn  the  Jews,  so  could  he. 

"  Corporal,"  says  he,  "  I  am  going  to  supper. 
Do  what  you  like  with  the  Jew,  so  long  as  you 
put  him  decently  away  when  you  have  finished. 
Good  night." 

The  Corporal  conferred  with  his  men.  Here 
was  the  Jew  —  what  should  they  do  with  him? 
One  of  the  archers  suggested  a  source  of  profit. 
He  might  be  shown  in  the  wine-shops  at  a  quat- 
trino  a  head.     Agreed.     Off  they  set. 

They  showed  him  at  the  Codalunga  —  there 
were  some  low-browed  hovels  there,  as  was  usual 


IPPOLITA   IN   THE   HILLS  87 

about  the  gates :  the  Jew  did  well.  Thence  they 
skirted  the  walls  by  the  Riviera  Santa  Sofia,  tried 
him  at  the  outer  gate  of  the  Carmine,  worked 
their  way  from  tavern  to  tavern,  till  they  came  to 
the  Vicolo  Agnus  Dei.  It  was  a  thousand  pities 
Matteo  was  drunk  in  bed ;  he  had  quattrini 
enough  and  would  not  have  missed  the  treat  for 
the  world.  Ippolita,  whimpering  in  hers,  won- 
dered what  the  buzzing  and  sliding  of  shoes  in 
the  street  below  could  be  about.  She  had  troubles 
of  her  own,  poor  girl,  but  she  could  not  stand 
this.  Up  she  got:  a  single  glance  out  of  win- 
dow was  enough.  She  shuffled  on  a  shift  and 
a  petticoat,  snatched  a  shawl,  and  tiptoed  out. 
Annina,  her  bosom  friend,  had  no  troubles.  She 
was  half  undressed,  but  she  too  slipped  a  shawl 
over  her  head  and  went  peering  into  the  alley. 
There  she  met  Ippolita,  and  joined  hands.  Flar- 
ing torches,  a  swarm  of  eager  black  heads,  whispers, 
grunting,  the  archers'  plumed  helmets  — "  Ma- 
donna !  What's  all  this  ? "  cried  the  two  girls 
together  in  a  stew  of  curiosity.  A  dead  Jew? 
A  murdered  Jew  ?  O  Gesu !  They  borrowed  a 
quattrino  apiece  from  a  neighbour  and  were  richly 
rewarded.  Ah,  the  blood,  the  staring,  his  grey 
old  fingers  !  There  was  a  something,  if  you  like, 
to  talk  about  at  the  house-door ;  and  a  something 
to  dream  of,  per  Bacco !  I  believe  the  Jew  en- 
gulfed all  her  annoyances  of  the  past  and  all 
her  fret  over  the  immediate  future. 

When  they  had  done  with  him  came  the  ques- 
tion of  his  interment.  It  was  the  small  hours, 
very  near  the  time  to  relieve  guard.  The  Jew's 
hosts  found  themselves  out  by  the  Porta  Santa 


88  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

Croce  —  an  empty  quarter  of  the  town,  abounding 
in  gardens. 

"Over  the  wall  with  him,"  said  the  Corporal; 
11  we'll  plant  him  here."  It  was  done.  The  Jew, 
who,  by  the  look  of  him,  had  earned  more  money 
an  hour  after  death  than  in  all  the  years  of  his 
life,  was  put  a  foot  and  a  half  underground 
among  the  pumpkins  in  a  garden  of  the  Via  di 
Vanzo.     Padua  went  to  sleep. 


IV 

IPPOLITA    LIFTS    UP    HER    EYES    TO   THE    HILLS 

Waking  from  a  late  troubled  sleep,  Ippolita 
found  her  little  room  possessed  by  three  noble 
ladies  —  Emilia  Malaspina,  Euforbia  di  Ponterotto, 
and  Domenica  di  Campodarsego  —  dressed  all  in 
saffron  and  white  (her  sacred  colours,  they  told  her), 
who  announced  themselves,  with  much  kneeling 
and  folding  of  arms  over  breasts,  as  her  handmaids. 
"  Sagro  cuor  di  Gesu ! "  thought  poor  Ippolita, 
"  what  a  way  to  undo  me  !  "  But  aloud  she  only 
murmured,  "  Tante  grazie,  gentildonne,"  and  got 
out  of  bed. 

They  had  prepared  for  her  a  scented  bath,  into 
which,  in  her  dazed  condition,  she  entered  with- 
out overmuch  persuasion.  True,  she  thought  to 
find  her  death  in  so  much  water,  and  crossed  her- 
self vehemently  when  first  it  touched  her  back ; 
but  there  might  be  worse  deaths  (she  supposed) 
than  drowning  for  a  poor  girl  bought  and  sold, 
and  not  so  very  long  ago  a  Jew  had  been  baptized 
in  Santa  Giustina  in  water  up  to  his  neck.  Noth- 
ing, however,  would  induce  her  to  sit  down.  They 
dressed  her  then  in  silk,  tired  and  garlanded  her 
hair,  put  a  gold  chain  round  her  neck,  silken 
shoes  on  her  feet  —  talking  in  quick  whispers  to 
each  other  all  the  time ;  and  so  announced  with 

89 


9o  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

curtsies  that  she  might  enter  the  litter  as  soon 
as  she  would.  She  was  at  the  disposition  of  these 
ladies,  was  her  faltered  reply.  Emilia  waved  her 
hand  out  of  the  little  window ;  chords  of  music 
sounded  from  the  street ;  the  voices  of  men  and 
ladies  rose  upon  a  madrigal  — 

"  Fior'  di  Maggio  —  Soave,  pio  e  saggio  — 
Salve,  Ippolita !  "  —  the  work  of  Alessandro's 
muse  upon  that  night  of  discord  from  the  Jew. 
So  she  went  downstairs. 

The  Vicolo  Agnus  Dei  —  a  blind  alley  of  low 
jutting  houses  over  arcades,  full  of  squalor,  pink 
wash,  children,  and  cats  —  was  on  this  early  morn- 
ing ablaze  with  colour  and  music.  From  wall 
to  wall  (and  eight  feet  will  measure  that)  it 
seemed  packed  with  the  nobility.  Tousled  heads 
from  above  looked  down  curiously  on  heads 
elaborately  frizzed,  on  scarlet  caps,  on  plumes, 
on  garlands,  on  jewelled  necks.  Poverty  and 
riches  touch  at  their  extremes,  like  houses  in  the 
South.  The  shoulders  of  the  ladies  at  play  were 
no  barer  than  those  of  the  slatterns  who  gaped 
at  them  playing;  but  for  Ippolita,  who  had  al- 
ways been  a  decent  girl,  let  us  hope  her  blushes 
were  a  cloak.  She  felt  naked.  And  the  bath, 
remember,  had  unnerved  her. 

What  these  neighbours  of  hers  may  have 
thought  is  no  concern  of  ours,  since  the  actors 
in  the  play  took  no  concern  in  it.  Twenty  pieces 
of  silver  had  bought  an  incomparable  peg  for 
their  conceits.  They  were  rescuing,  they  said 
to  each  other,  a  lily  from  the  gutter,  taking  a 
jewel  from  a  dirty  finger,  glorifying  the  glories 
—  a  pious  act  which  could  not  fail  of  returning 


IPPOLITA   IN   THE   HILLS  91 

honour  to  those  who  took  honour  in  doing  it. 
The  people !  Sacks  to  be  filled  with  garlic  and 
black  wine,  liver  and  blood-puddings  —  grunting 
hogs,  let  them  keep  their  sty.  Let  them  not 
dare  (and  in  truth  it  never  occurred  to  them  to 
dare)  interfere  with  the  diversions  of  the  great. 
Yet  as  the  veiled  sacrifice  went  to  mount  the 
litter,  one  brown-eyed  rascal  from  an  upper  win- 
dow, holding  a  towel  over  her  neck,  shrilled  out 
in  homely  patois,  "  A  vederti,  '  Polita  mia  !  "  and 
Ippolita  turned  her  lovely  head  and  showed  for 
a  moment  her  shining  wet  eyes  to  those  who 
watched.  She  smiled  tenderly  at  the  send-off, 
but  "  Addio,  Annina,  addio  !  "  she  said  softly,  and 
turned  bowing  to  her  bowing  gaolers. 

As  the  swaying  litter  of  gold  and  white  went  out 
into  the  Pozzo  Depinto  and  turned  up  towards 
the  Pontecorbo  Gate ;  as  the  music  and  chanting 
—  "Candida  Ippolita,  premio  d'Amore !  Grazia 
insolita  del  sommo  Fattore ! "  —  died  away  to  a 
murmurous  underflow  of  sound,  perhaps  a  tongue 
or  two  was  thrust  into  a  cheek  or  two,  perhaps 
a  bare  shoulder  shrugged  or  one  shockhead 
wagged  to  another.  The  air  was  sharp,  beds 
still  warm  —  whose  business  was  it  ?  The  street 
was  left  to  the  rats  and  snuffing  dogs  again. 

But  Annina  had  sparks  of  fire  in  her  brown  eyes, 
and  panted  as  she  tugged  at  her  staylaces.  It 
was  not  long  before  she  clattered  downstairs  on 
her  clacking  heels,  and  went  to  mark  the  cage 
they  had  gilded  for  her  dear  Ippolita. 

Those  hierophants,  that  Collegio  d'Amore  (as 
the  new  style  ran),  bearing  in  their  midst  the 
garlanded  victim  —  Goddess  at  once  and  Sacri- 


92  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

fice  —  awoke  the  echoes  of  the  streets  without 
comment.  The  city  gates  were  open,  it  is  true ; 
in  some  churches  the  doors  stood  wide  for  the 
first  mass ;  they  passed  a  priest  or  so  just  up,  a 
friar  or  so,  furtive  truants  from  their  beds ;  then, 
at  the  edge  of  the  Piazza  del  Santo,  Ippolita 
peeping  through  her  curtains  saw  a  little  com- 
pany of  goatherds,  blanketted,  brown-legged, 
shabby  rogues,  their  feet  white  with  country 
dust,  new  in  from  the  hills  with  their  flocks. 
They  blinked  to  see  the  gay  procession ;  but 
wistfully,  longingly  she  looked  after  them  from 
her  cage.  They  were  not  so  much  market-stuff, 
per  Dio !  They  walked  at  large  over  bright  hill- 
sides, singing  to  the  sky  and  the  winds.  They  were 
not  pestered  with  love  or  fine  buzzing  ladies  or 
capering  signori,  who  larded  poor  girls  with  com- 
pliments, and  showed  their  teeth  most  when  they 
meant  least.  Ah,  if  she  could  run  away !  If  she 
could  hide  with  them,  lie  on  the  hill-sides  while 
the  goats  cropped  about  her ;  lie  on  her  back,  her 
hands  a  pillow,  and  sing  to  the  sky  and  the  winds 
because  she  was  so  happy !  The  thought  pos- 
sessed her ;  she  ached  for  freedom ;  felt  the  water 
of  desire  hot  in  her  mouth.  The  sleepy  shep- 
herds huddled  in  their  rags  watched  her  go  by ; 
they  little  knew  what  a  craving  the  sight  of  their 
dusty  ease  had  stirred  in  a  heart  whose  covering 
was  fine  silk  and  strung  pearls.  Her  wrongs 
came  back  upon  her  like  heaped  waters  of  a  flood. 
That  shameful  bath  — -  ah,  Soul  of  Christ,  to  strip 
one  naked,  and  let  souse  in  hot  water,  like  a  pig 
whose  bristles  must  come  off !  More  than  songs 
which  she  did  not  understand,  more  than  compli- 


IPPOLITA   IN   THE   HILLS  93 

ments  which  made  her  feel  foolish  and  pictures 
which  made  her  look  so,  was  this  refined  indig- 
nity. Seethed  in  water  like  a  dead  pig  —  Ah, 
Madonna!  She  arrived  sulky  —  if  so  humble- 
minded  a  girl  could  be  sulky ;  defiant,  suspicious, 
at  least. 

The  place  chosen  for  the  new  Collegio  d'Amore 
was  the  Villa  Venusta,  whose  shady  garden  can 
still  be  seen  from  the  Riviera  Businello.  This 
garden  is  full  of  trees,  myrtle,  wisteria,  lilac,  acacia 
—  flowering  trees  —  with  a  complement  of  firs  and 
shining  laurel  to  give  a  setting  to  so  much  golden- 
green  and  white.  It  has  a  canal  on  two  sides,  is 
a  deep,  leafy  place,  where  nightingales  sing  day 
and  night ;  it  abounds  in  grass  lawns,  flowers,  weep- 
ing trees,  and  marble  hernia?.  The  villa  itself  is 
very  stately,  a  three-storied  house  in  the  Venetian 
style,  from  whose  upper  windows  you  can  com- 
mand a  fine  stretch  of  country;  below  you  on 
either  hand  the  Piazza  del  Santo,  the  Prato  della 
Valle,  with  their  enormous  churches,  pink  and 
grey ;  beyond  these  the  city  walls,  the  green  plain  ; 
lastly,  the  ragged  outline  of  the  far  distant  hills. 
It  has  a  courtyard  with  lemon  trees,  long,  dim 
rooms  empty  of  all  but  coolness,  shuttered  against 
the  glare  of  noon ;  above,  a  great  saloon  coffered 
in  the  ceiling,  frescoed  on  the  walls,  with  a  dais 
and  a  throne;  an  open  loggia  full  of  flowers; 
above  all  this  again,  raftered  bedrooms  smelling 
of  lavender.  A  roomy,  stately  place  for  those 
whose  lives  move  easily  in  such  surroundings; 
for  Ippolita,  the  girl  of  the  people,  happy  in  her 
dark  tenement  in  the  Vicolo,  gossip  of  the  upper 
windows,  shy  beckoner  to  the  street,  burnisher  of 


94  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

doorposts  at  sundown  —  for  Ippolita  this  windy 
great  house  was  a  prison,  neither  more  nor  less. 

It  was  a  prison,  at  least,  conducted  according  to 
the  best  rules  of  gallantry  then  obtaining.  They 
bowed  her  up  the  staircase  to  the  refectory :  they 
sat  her  down  and  plied  her  on  their  knees  with 
fruit  and  cups  of  wine.  They  led  her  to  the 
throne  room  where,  high  above  them  all,  she  was 
to  sit,  and  (being  crowned)  hear  them  contend  in 
verse  and  prose  for  the  privilege  of  her  love  for 
the  day.  It  was  all  arranged.  She  was  to  have 
a  favourite  every  day,  man  or  maid.  Favour  was 
to  go  by  merit  among  her  slaves.  The  theme 
was  always  to  be  her  incomparable  virtues  —  her 
beauty,  discretion,  wit  (poor  dumb  fish !),  her  shin- 
ing chastity,  power  of  binding  and  loosing  by  one 
soft  blue  ray  from  her  eyes,  etc.  They  displayed 
her  emblems  on  the  walls  —  the  peacock,  because 
her  beauty  was  her  pride,  her  pride  her  beauty ; 
doves,  because  they  were  Aphrodite's  birds;  rab- 
bits, because  the  artist  understood  rabbits;  the 
beaver,  that  glorious  witness  of  virtue,  who  makes 
himself  less  certainly  a  beaver  that  he  may  be 
more  safely  a  saint;  the  beaver,  I  say,  in  white 
on  a  green  field.  Other  symbols  —  the  lily  of 
her  candour,  the  rose  of  her  glowing  cheeks,  the 
crocus  of  her  hair,  the  pink  anemones  which  were 
her  toes,  the  almond  for  her  fingers:  she  saw  her- 
self articulated;  her  fauna,  her  flora,  her  moral  and 
physical  attributes  cried  at  her  from  the  four  walls. 

Ippolita  sat  very  scared  on  her  throne,  and 
endured  what  she  could  by  catching  firmly  to 
the  knobs  of  it  and  blinking  her  eyes.  One  by 
one  they  came  creeping,  these  silken  ladies,  these 


IPPOLITA   IN   THE   HILLS  95 

slashed  and  curled  young  lords,  to  kiss  her  hand. 
"  Dio  mio ! "  thought  she,  "  what  is  all  this 
about  ?  And  are  maids  courted  this  way  among 
the  great?"  She  knew  very  little  about  it,  yet 
was  quite  sure  they  were  not.  She  wondered 
when  Alessandro's  business  was  going  to  begin. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  had  begun.  He  was  now 
removing  several  inches  of  superfluous  finger-nail 
with  a  sword. 

For  the  first  day  that  same  Alessandro  del 
Dardo  won  her  to  himself  by  his  descant  upon 
the  theme,  "  How  a  gentleman  may  dismember 
himself  without  dishonour  for  a  lady's  love ;  and 
how  not." 

"  Now  he  has  me,"  thought  poor  Ippolita,  and 
set  her  teeth.  But  he  lay  at  her  feet  most  of 
the  day,  and  though  at  night  he  led  her  into  the 
garden,  if  you  will  believe  me,  he  never  even 
kissed  her  hand. 

"  Who  is  mad  ?  "  thought  she  to  herself,  staring 
from  her  bed  into  the  shadowy  angles  of  the 
room.  "  Am  I  mad  ?  Are  these  signori  all  mad  ? 
Is  this  a  mad-house  ?  Dio !  it  soon  should  be  at 
this  rate."     She  cried  herself  asleep  at  last. 

Next  day  it  was  Meleagro  who  won  her  by  a 
careful  consideration  of  the  question,  "Whether 
or  no,  when  a  gentleman  has  served  a  lady  for 
ten  years,  and  she  falls  sick  of  the  small-pox, 
he  is  ipso  facto  absolved  of  his  vow  ? "  Meleagro 
decided  that  he  was  not,  and  was  accepted  by 
Ippolita,  not  because  she  admired  his  reasoning, 
but  because  she   thought  it  part  of   the  game. 

Next  came  the  turn  of  Donna  Emilia,  a  very 
burning  poetess,  for  a  Sapphic  ode ;  and  so  on 


96  LITTLE  NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

and  so  on.  After  three  days  Ippolita  found 
herself  yawning  her  head  off;  the  longing  for 
freedom  returned,  for  the  open  country,  the  hills, 
the  goatherds.  Not  for  her  home  in  the  Vicolo : 
this  everlasting  love-making  with  its  aftertaste  of 
stale  sugar  had  turned  her  sick  of  Padua.  The 
whole  city,  to  her  mind,  reeked  of  bergamot ;  she 
guessed  a  fawning  lover  at  every  street  corner,  a 
pryer  at  every  window  —  basta,  basta,  la  citta ! 

No :  it  was  to  the  hills  she  lifted  up  her  eyes, 
to  the  hills  and  the  swart  goatherds  free  of  their 
mystery.  That  riviera  across  the  canal,  where 
the  budding  planes  made  a  mist  of  brown  and 
rose,  was  a  favourite  haunt  of  theirs.  There 
they  assembled  and  milked  their  goats,  thence 
set  out  homewards  at  night.  Sitting  in  the 
pleached  arbours,  with  two  adoring  ladies  at  her 
feet  and  a  little  cluster  of  youths  behind  and  be- 
side her,  she  used  to  peer  long  and  earnestly 
through  the  branches  to  see  them  collect  their 
flocks  and  start  for  the  hills  at  dusk.  Lithe, 
brown,  sinewy  lads  they  were !  What  long  legs 
they  had,  with  what  bravery  wore  their  ragged 
cloaks !  One  carried  a  great  bulging  skin  under 
his  arm  —  bagpipes!  She  was  sure  they  made 
good  music  to  each  other  in  the  green  country 
places.  Very  early  in  the  morning  she  heard 
them  come  in ;  they  were  known  by  their  bells. 
She  jumped  out  of  her  luxurious  bed  at  the  first 
tinkle,  and  was  at  the  shutter  watching  for  them 
before  ever  they  rounded  the  angle  of  the  Ponte 
della  Morte.  There  they  came !  colour  of  dust, 
with  the  straggling  goats  following  after  in  a 
cloud  of  it.     Her  impulse  was  to  fling  wide  the 


IPPOLITA   IN  THE   HILLS  97 

casement,  hold  out  both  her  arms,  call  to  them 
with  all  her  might,  "  Ha !  help,  in  the  name  of  the 
Trinity!  Take  me  with  you  to  the  green  hills. 
I  am  weary  of  life  in  this  place  !  "  Then,  knowing 
she  could  not,  she  would  hold  herself  back  by 
main  force,  stare  about  her,  run  back,  throw  her- 
self on  the  bed,  lie  there  sobbing  wildly,  and  so 
be  found  by  her  ladies  who  came  to  put  her  in 
that  detestable  bath.  She  was  sure  her  skin  was 
being  rotted  by  so  much  water ;  she  used  to  feel 
her  arms  and  thighs  secretly  to  see  if  they  were 
palpably  more  flabby.  It  stood  to  reason  that 
the  water  must  soak  in  —  where  else  could  it  go  to  ! 
She  thought  that  she  walked  like  a  bladder,  sup- 
posing a  bladder  were  to  take  itself  legs.  The 
whole  affair  was  clean  abominable;  but  she  saw 
no  way  out. 
The  way  came. 

H 


V 

ANNINA    AS    DEMIURGE 

They  held  a  tournament  in  the  courtyard  of 
the  villa;  quite  a  concourse  thronged  the  painted 
lists.  Ippolita,  a  miracle  of  rose  and  gold,  in  a 
white  gauzy  robe,  her  hair  crowned  with  daisies, 
was  Queen  of  Love  and  Beauty,  fanned  by  ladies 
in  red.  Del  Dardo  tilted  with  Vittore  Marzipane, 
Gottardo  de'  Brancacci  with  Giacomo  Feo,  a 
young  lion  from  the  Romagna.  Messer  Meleagro 
very  nearly  fell  off  his  horse.  They  were  all  in 
gilt  armour,  their  steeds  blazoned  with  peacocks ; 
but  there  was  no  dust,  for  the  ground  had  been 
wetted  with  rosewater;  no  bones  were  broken 
and  no  blood  drawn.  The  gallants  of  the  Quat- 
trocento could  not  abide  what  gave  the  salt  to 
their  grandfathers'  feasts.  They  had  other  ways 
of  deciding  issues  which  appeared  satisfactory; 
and  when  at  the  end  the  conquering  champion 
went  down  on  his  two  knees  before  the  throne, 
when  Ippolita  with  deprecating  hands  and  down- 
cast eyes  rose  timidly  to  crown  him,  the  silver 
trumpets  pealed  as  shatteringly  as  ever  over  a 
blood-fray,  and  the  company  cried  aloud  to  the 
witnessing  sky,  "  Evviva  Ippolita  bella ! "  They 
could  have  done  no  more  for  a  sheaf  of  broken 
necks. 

98 


IPPOLITA   IN   THE   HILLS  99 

This  was  a  great  day ;  but  at  the  close  of  it  its 
glorious  Occasion  locked  herself  into  her  cham- 
ber with  breathless  care,  and  sat  tearful  by  the 
window,  with  crisping  hands  and  heaving  bosom, 
watchful  of  the  happy  idlers  she  could  see  afar 
off  in  the  broad  green  Prato.  Under  the  shim- 
mering trees  there  walked  mothers,  whose  chil- 
dren dragged  at  their  skirts  to  make  them  look ; 
handfasted  lovers  were  there ;  a  lad  teased  a  lass ; 
a  girl  hunched  her  shoulder  to  provoke  more 
teasing.  An  old  priest  paused  with  a  finger  in 
his  breviary  to  smile  upon  a  heap  of  ragged  urchins 
tumbling  in  the  dust.  The  air  breathed  benevo- 
lence, the  peace  of  afternoon,  the  end  of  toil. 
Round  about,  so  still  and  easeful  after  the  day's 
labour,  were  the  white  houses,  green-shuttered, 
half  hidden  in  the  trees;  the  minarets,  the  domes, 
the  coursing  swallows:  over  them  the  golden  haze 
of  afternoon,  a  sky  yellowing  at  the  edge,  beams 
of  dusty  sunlight  coming  slant-wise,  broad  pools  of 
shadow ;  further  still,  the  far  purple  shoulders  of 
the  hills.  Ah,  those  velvet-sided,  blue-bathing, 
bird-haunted,  wind-kissed  hills ! 

But  what  was  that?  The  jangle  of  little 
bells  —  the  goatherds  were  going  out  of  the  city ! 
This  poor  prisoner  then,  this  watched  and  weary 
beauty,  whispered  to  herself  of  her  despair.  "  Oh, 
Madonna,  Madonna,  Madonna,"  she  fretted,  "  let 
me  go ! " 

As  by  miracle  they  announced  a  visitor :  one 
Annina,  a  girl  of  the  town.  Would  her  Majesty 
see  her  ? 

Ah,  Heaven !  but  her  Majesty  would !  In  came, 
staring   and   breathing   hard,  a   brown-eyed  girl 


ioo  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

with  a  shawl  over  her  head,  below  it  a  blue  stuff 
gown,  below  all  a  pair  of  sturdy  bare  legs.  "  Cor- 
paccio !  that's  a  lady ;  that's  never  my  'Polita,"  she 
stammered  when  she  saw  the  white  silk  wonder 
of  the  room,  the  jewels  in  her  neck,  the  chains 
of  gold,  the  bosom. 

"  Oh,  Annina !  Annina !  it  is,  it  is  your  poor 
Ippolita,"  panted  the  beauty,  and  fell  into  the  red 
arms  of  her  friend. 

"  Sakes !  dear  sakes  !  Thou'lt  spoil  thy  glory, 
my  lovely  dear,"  cried  the  other;  "but  there 
then,  but  there  then,  there's  nothing  to  wail 
about.  Tell  me  the  trouble,  tell  thy  good  Nan- 
nina ! "  So  she  petted  her,  like  a  mother  her 
child. 

Donna  Euforbia  stood  confused,  but  dutiful 
ever.  "  Has  her  Majesty  any  further  com- 
mands ? " 

"  Grazie,  grazie,"  said  her  kissing  Majesty, 
"  niente ! "  and  so  was  left  alone  with  all  that 
she  held  true  in  Padua. 

"  Oh,  come,  Nannina,  come  and  sit  with  me ; 
come  to  the  window  —  let  us  have  the  air."  She 
led  her  there.  "  O  lasso ! "  said  she  then,  and 
sighed ;  "  how  good  it  is  to  see  thee,  child ! " 

Before  the  other  could  let  out  a  "Madonna!" 
she  began  her  plaint.  "  They  give  me  no  rest, 
Nannina,  no  rest  at  all.  Day  long,  night  long, 
they  are  at  their  postures.  I  am  dressed,  un- 
dressed, put  to  bed,  taken  out,  fed,  watered,  like 
a  pet  dog.  They  put  me  in  a  bath,  they  do  my 
hair  out  every  day :  to  get  me  up  in  the  morning 
according  to  their  fancies  is  an  hour  and  a  half's 
work  for  three  ladies.      Figure  it ! " 


IPPOLITA   IN   THE   HILLS  101 

"Christian  souls!"  cried  Nannina,  "what's  the 
meaning  of  this?     A  bath?     What,  water?" 

"  Full  to  the  brim  with  water,  on  the  faith  of  a 
Catholic.  Of  course,  if  this  continues  I  must 
die." 

"Oh,  sicuro,  sicurissimo !  "  she  agreed.  "This 
is  very  serious,  Ippolita.  Eh,  let  me  feel  you. 
Are  you  ever  dry,  my  poor  child  ? " 

"  Dry  to  the  touch,  Nannina,  dry  to  the  touch. 
But  it  is  within  my  body  I  fear  it.  I  must  be 
sodden,  dearest." 

"Send  for  a  priest,  Ippolita,  that  is  the  only 
chance.  But,  remember,  when  they  have  washed 
you,  they  put  clothes  upon  you  like  these.  Ah, 
but  it  is  worth  a  girl's  while  to  have  silk  upon 
her,  and  these  chains,  and  these  pearls.  Corpac- 
cio !  there  is  no  Madonna  in  Padua  with  such 
stones  as  these,  nor  any  bishop  either,  upon  my 
faith ! " 

Ippolita  shook  her  beautiful  head.  "  They  are 
not  worth  the  price  of  all  that  smelling  water,"  she 
complained.  "  Try  it,  Nannina,  before  you  speak. 
Seriously,  I  am  very  unhappy.  Let  me  tell  you 
something." 

"  Well  ? " 

"  No  —  come  nearer.     I'll  whisper." 

The  two  heads  were  very  close  together.  Nan- 
nina's  eyes  became  a  study  —  attention,  suspicion, 
justified  prophecy,  hopefulness ;  then  saucerfuls 
of  sheer  surprise  to  smother  every  other  emo- 
tion. 

"  Ma !    Impossibile  !    And  they  have  never — ?  " 

"  Never  so  much  as  a  finger." 

"But  what?     Are  they  —  ?     Don't  they  —  ?w 


102  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

Ippolita  shrugged,  pouting.  "  Chi  lo  sa  ?  I 
tell  you,  Nannina,  I  shall  go  mad  in  this  place." 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  cried  the  other  with  a  snort. 
"  You  have  examples  enough  about  you,  my  con- 
science !  What  is  all  their  singing  and  stuff 
about  ? " 

"  I  think  it  is  about  me,  Nannina." 

"  And  their  disputing  ?  " 

"  It  is  about  me." 

"  And  the  rhymes  ?  " 

"  They  are  about  me." 

"  And  you  have  never —  ?  " 

"  Never,  never,  never ! " 

"  What,  not  in  the  garden  even  ? " 

"  No,  never,  I  tell  you.     Only  my  hand." 

"Your  hand  —  pouf!  The  nightingales  sing 
there,  I  suppose." 

"  All  night." 

"  And  there  is  moonlight  ? " 

"  Floods  of  moonlight." 

"  Dio !  Dio  santissimo !  "  cried  Nannina,  strik- 
ing her  friend  on  the  knee,  "you  must  be  out 
of  this,  Ippolita !  This  is  unwholesome :  I  like 
not  the  smell  of  this.  Faugh,  fungus  !  Mawkish  ! 
I  will  see  your  father  this  very  night." 

Ippolita  shook  her  head  again.  "  My  father  is 
paid  by  these  signori." 

"  Then  the  priest  must  do  it.  Father  Corrado 
must  do  it." 

"  He  dare  not." 

"  A  convent  —  ?  " 

"  No,  never !  That  is  worse  than  this.  But 
—  oh,  Nannina !  if  I  dared  I  would  do  such  a 
thing." 


IPPOLITA   IN  THE   HILLS  103 

"  Well,  let  me  hear.  If  it  can  be  done  it  shall 
be  done." 

"  Ah,"  sighed  Ippolita,  with  a  hand  on  her 
heart,  "  ah,  but  it  cannot  be  done !  " 

"  Then  why  speak  of  it  ?  " 

"  Because  I  want  so  much  to  do  it.     Listen." 

Then  Ippolita,  clinging  to  her  friend's  neck, 
whispered  her  darling  thought.  The  goatherds 
on  the  hills!  There  was  freedom — clean,  untram- 
melled freedom !  No  philandering,  for  no  one 
would  know  she  was  a  girl ;  no  ceremony,  no 
grimacing,  no  stiff  clothes;  no  hair-tiring — she 
must  cut  off  her  hair — no  bathing,  ah,  Heaven !  If 
she  might  go  for  a  few  months,  a  few  weeks,  until 
the  hue  and  cry  was  over,  until  the  signori  had 
thought  of  a  new  game ;  then  she  would  come 
back,  and  her  father  would  be  so  glad  of  her  that 
he  would  not  beat  her  more  than  she  could  fairly 
stand.  It  was  a  great  scheme  ;  indeed  it  was  the 
only  way.     But  how  to  do  ?     How  to  do  ? 

"  I  suppose  it  is  a  dream  of  mine,"  sighed  she, 
knotting  her  fingers  in  and  out  of  the  gold  chains. 

Annina  said  nothing,  but  frowned  a  good  deal. 
"  I  see  that  you  are  not  safe  in  Padua,"  she  said 
in  the  end.  "  You  are  really  too  handsome,  my 
child.  You  couldn't  show  your  nose  without 
being  known  and  reported.  You  must  go  outside 
if  you  are  to  be  in  peace." 

"  But  I  can't  go,  Nannina ;  you  know  it  as  well 
as  I  do." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure.  Do  you  mean  what  you 
say,  Ippolita  ? " 

"Ah,  Nannina!" 

"  Then  you  shall  go.    It  so  happens  that  I  know 


104  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

one  of  those  goatherds  —  a  rough  lout  of  a  fellow 
called  Petruccio.  I  could  tell  him  that  a  young- 
ster had  got  into  trouble  in  the  city  and  wanted 
to  lie  quiet  for  a  week  or  two.  I  can  do  it,  Ippo- 
lita." 

"  Oh !     And  will  you,  will  you  ? " 

"  Corpaccio !     If  you  mean  business." 

"  I  mean  nothing  else." 

"  Then  it  is  done." 

They  clung  together  and  kissed.  Annina  was 
to  return  the  next  evening  at  the  same  hour. 

That  night  it  was  remarked  on  all  sides  that 
Ippolita's  beauty  had  never  been  so  disastrous, 
her  eyes  so  starry  bright,  her  colour  so  fire-flushed. 
Messer  Alessandro,  who  loved  her  like  a  maniac, 
went  shivering  out  alone  into  the  moonlit  garden 
to  expostulate  with  Nature.  "  Thou  hast  formed, 
most  cruel  Mother,"  cried  he,  "  an  image  of  thy 
fatal  self,  whose  eyes  are  sharp  swords,  and  her 
breath  poison  of  ineffable  sweetness ;  whose  con- 
summate shape  killeth  by  mere  splendour;  to 
whose  tint  of  bright  fire  every  arm  must  stretch 
as  moth  to  flame,  and  by  it  be  blasted.  All  this 
thou  hast  done,  and  not  yet  content,  hast  set  this 
glory  so  low  that  all  may  reach  for  it,  and  yet  so 
remote  that  none  can  touch.  Burning-pure  is 
my  Beloved,  at  whose  approach  I  faint.  What 
hard  miracle  is  this  of  thine,  Goddess,  that  all 
must  love  and  none  be  found  worthy  ? "  Thus 
we  may  reflect,  as  Alessandro  beat  his  resound- 
ing forehead,  to  what  a  pass  poetry  may  bring 
a  youth,  who  buys  for  twenty  ducats  what  twenty 
thousand  cannot  give  him  the  use  of.  Pygmalion 
made  a  woman  one  day,  moulding  all  her  gracious 


IPPOLITA   IN   THE   HILLS  105 

curves  as  his  experience  taught  him.  There  went 
his  twenty  ducats.  But  not  he  could  warm  that 
image  into  glowing  flesh,  however  much  he  sang 
to  it  and  hymned.  That  was  another's  affair. 
So  here. 

Annina  came  on  the  morrow  full  of  secrecy 
and  other  things  more  equivocal  still  in  appear- 
ance. Her  burden  proved,  however,  to  be  a 
bundle  of  rags  which,  she  assured  Ippolita,  repre- 
sented all  that  was  necessary  to  the  perfect  goat- 
herd. 

"We  will  do  what  we  can  here,  child,"  said 
she,  "  in  the  way  of  staining  your  skin,  cutting 
off  your  hair,  and  such  like.  Then  you  shall 
veil  and  come  into  the  garden  with  me;  but 
whereas  you  shall  come  in  as  the  Madonna  of 
these  heathens,  you  shall  leave,  per  Dio,  as  Sil- 
vestro,  who  murdered  the  Jew  in  the  Via  della 
Gatta  and  has  to  hide  in  the  hills.  Do  you  re- 
member him,  Ippolita  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  said  Ippolita.  "  Have  I  killed 
that  Jew,  Annina?" 

"  It  is  to  be  understood,  my  dear.  Now  come, 
there  is  everything  to  arrange." 

There  was  indeed.  Del  Dardo  would  have 
swooned  to  see  how  Annina  handled  his  Unap- 
proachable. Her  burnished  hair  was  off  with  a 
clip  or  two  of  the  great  shears ;  a  mixture  of  soot 
and  walnut-juice  hid  up  her  roses,  and  trans- 
formed her  ivory  limbs  to  the  similitude  of  a 
tanner's.  Ippolita  did  not  know  herself.  Veiled 
up  close,  she  crept  into  the  garden  with  her  con- 
fidante, and  in  a  bower  by  the  canal  completed 
her  transformation.    Not  Daphne  suffered  a  ruder 


106  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

change.  A  pair  of  ragged  breeches,  swathes  of 
cloth  on  her  legs,  an  old  shirt,  a  cloak  of  patched 
clouts,  shapeless  hat  of  felt,  sandals  for  her  feet, 
shod  staff  for  her  hand  —  behold  the  peerless 
Ippolita,  idol  of  half  Padua,  turned  into  a  sheep- 
ish, overgrown  boy  in  tatters,  whose  bathing 
could  only  have  been  in  sweat,  and  the  scent 
of  his  garments  the  rankness  of  goats.  On  the 
floor  in  a  shining  heap  lay  the  silk  robes,  the 
chains  and  jewels,  only  witness  with  Annina  of 
what  had  been  done.  That  same  Annina  clasped 
in  her  arms  the  tall  boy. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear ! "  she  said,  half  sob- 
bing, "  if  any  ill  should  come  of  this  I  shall  kill 
myself." 

"  No  ill  will  come,  Nannina,  believe  me,"  re- 
plied Ippolita,  quite  calm.  "  You  are  sure  they 
expect  me  ? " 

"  I  see  them  on  the  riviera  now.  Slip  into  the 
boat.     I  will  put  you  across." 

On  the  other  bank,  Ippolita  was  received  by 
the  herd-boys,  all  agog  to  see  the  champion  who 
had  killed  the  Jew. 

"  Addio,  Silvestro,"  said  Annina,  keeping  up 
the  play. 

"  Addio,  Nannina,"  said  Silvestro,  with  a 
chuckle. 

"  Are  we  ready,  boys  ? "  Petruccio  called  out, 
turning  about  him.  "  We  must  be  careful  what 
we're  doing." 

"  Hist,  Silvestro,"  whispered  one,  with  a  nudge ; 
"  did  he  bleed  much  ?  " 

"  Cosa  terribile  —  a  flood  ! "  Silvestro  spread 
out  his  hands. 


IPPOLITA  IN   THE   HILLS  107 

"Cristo!     The  glory  of  it!" 

"  Valentino,  I  scrag  you,  my  man,  if  you  speak 
of  the  Jew  till  we  are  out  of  the  Porta  San  Zuan," 
growled  Petruccio,  the  leader :  "  Avanti !  "  And 
the  drab-coloured  crew  moved  off  towards  the 
sunset. 


VI 

SILVESTRO 

The  guard  at  the  Porta  San  Zuan  let  them  go 
unheeded ;  one  ragamuffin  more  or  less  made 
no  odds.  The  heart  of  the  new-born  Silvestro 
gave  a  great  bound  as  they  cleared  the  gate, 
and  she  saw  before  her  the  straight  white  road 
with  its  border  of  silver  stems  and  the  spreading 
tent-roof  of  golden  green.  These  stems  were  so 
obviously  like  the  pillars  of  a  church  that  Silves- 
tro ventured  to  remark  as  much  to  her  neighbour 
—  a  broad-faced,  thick  fellow,  not  quite  her  own 
height,  but  twice  as  big  in  the  girth.  His  mouth 
was  large,  his  eyes  were  small  and  rather  hot. 
He  blinked  a  good  deal,  was  very  sulky,  and  met 
her  advances  with  a  grunt.  "  Chi  lo  sa  ? "  was 
as  far  as  he  would  go  along  with  her  in  the  mat- 
ter of  tree-trunks. 

It  was  annoying.  Every  one  had  seemed 
friendly  at  first.  But  being  free,  she  could  not 
feel  daunted  long;  and  at  the  second  bend  of 
the  road  the  hills  sailed  into  full  vision  —  the 
solemn  hills  in  a  long  line  of  peak  and  hol- 
low, velvety,  dark,  and  brooding  sleep,  like  a 
bank  of  cloud  edging  the  pale  sky.  The  frogs 
were  singing  vespers  in  the  ditches,  the  sharp 
chorus  of   the  cicalas   shrilled  on  all  sides.     At 

108 


IPPOLITA  IN   THE  HILLS  109 

the  sight  of  this  enormous  calm  Silvestro  forgot 
rebuffs.  For  a  murderer  he  was  in  a  very  cheer- 
ful humour :  he  began  to  sing ;  soon  he  had  all 
the  boys  (except  that  blinker)  rapt  to  attention. 
Andrea  slewed  round  his  bag  and  pipes  and 
began  upon  a  winding  air ;  they  all  sang,  going 
at  a  trot.  The  goats  pricked  up  their  ears ;  they 
too  began  to  amble ;  it  became  a  stampede. 
The  sun  went  down  behind  Monte  Venda,  the 
bats  came  flickering  out,  the  great  droning  cock- 
chafers dropped  on  the  road  like  splashes  of  rain. 
The  night  found  them  still  far  from  Abano,  but 
still  talking  and  nearly  all  friends.  Silvestro  was 
hand  in  hand  with  Petruccio  and  another  boy, 
called  Mastino  because  he  was  heavy-jowled  and 
underhung.  Their  tongues  wagged  against  each 
other  about  nothing  at  all.  Silvestro  strength- 
ened his  position  by  hints  and  shrewd  winks,  but 
it  was  decided  that  the  Jew  should  be  kept  for 
the  night  fire.  That  was  too  choice  a  morsel  to 
be  eaten  on  the  road ;  that  must  be  rolled  on  the 
palate,  to  get  the  flavours.  It  was  a  pity,  cer- 
tainly, about  the  pig-eyed  boy,  who  snorted  when- 
ever the  exploit  was  mentioned  —  but  "  Never 
mind  him,"  thought  Silvestro ;  "  I  have  all  the 
others." 

They  passed  through  Abano ;  Monte  Ortone 
was  ahead,  a  spur  of  the  great  body  of  the  hills. 

"  There's  the  hermit's  candle,"  said  Petruccio.  A 
twinkling  light  showed  deep  in  the  trees.  "  There 
was  a  most  excellent  miracle  there  —  the  Blessed 
Virgin  in  a  tree.  Two  girls  saw  her  and  thought 
she  was  a  kite  entangled.  But  they  fetched  a 
priest  from  Abano,  and  he  knew  better.     So  then 


no  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

they  built  an  oracle  or  some  such  place,  and  paid 
a  hermit  to  pray  there.  And  now,  whoever  has 
ague,  or  is  with  child,  or  hath  bandy-legged  chil- 
dren, or  witch-crossed  cows,  always  goes  there; 
and  the  hermit  cures  them.  That  was  money 
well  laid  out,  I  suppose." 

"  Per  Bacco  !  "  cried  Andrea,  "  I'll  tell  you  some 
more.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Monna  Betta's  short 
leg?" 

Petruccio  cuffed  him  well.  "  A  palsy  on  her 
leg,  and  a  palsy  strike  thee,"  he  thundered,  "if 
with  thy  old  women's  tales  we  miss  the  path ! 
Go  drive  the  goats  in,  thick-chops,  and  stay  that 
clapper  of  thine  till  they  ask  for  a  crow-keeper. 
Move  now,  be  off !  " 

"  Tis  a  hard  thing,  Petruccio,"  blubbered  An- 
drea, "  if  one  may  not  tell  the  honour  of  his  own 
land  to  a  stranger." 

But  Petruccio  sent  him  flying  with  grit  in  his 
ear. 

By  a  brambly  path  they  climbed  Monte  Ortone 
—  Petruccio  first,  the  others  after  him,  the  new- 
comer as  best  might  be,  then  musically  the  goats. 
That  round-faced,  blinking  boy,  whom  they  called 
Castracane,  was  behind  Silvestro  now,  much  di- 
verted by  her  panting  efforts  to  go  up  without 
panting  what  he  could  rise  on  with  closed  mouth 
and  scarcely  any  sharper  whistling  at  the  nose. 

"  Hey,  comrade,"  said  he,  grinning,  "one  sees 
that  the  Jew's  stair  was  easier  going  for  thee 
than  Ortone."  And  he  prodded  her  with  his 
staff. 

This  was  not  friendly.  Ippolita  did  her  best 
to   humour   him.     "  I   go   up  as  well  as   I  can, 


IPPOLITA  IN   THE   HILLS  in 

Castracane,"  she  said.  "  But  do  you  go  first  if 
you  will." 

"Nay,  nay,"  he  replied,  with  a  chuckle;  "I 
make  very  good  practice  in  the  rear."  So  saying 
he  caught  her  ankle  in  the  crook  of  his  staff,  and 
brought  her  down  into  the  bushes  like  a  running 
ram. 

Silvestro  was  hurt  in  his  feelings;  all  the  rest 
laughed ;  his  late-won  empire  seemed  slipping. 
And  it  was  very  strange  treatment  for  the  Queen 
of  the  Collegio  d'Amore,  if  wholesome.  She  ar- 
rived wet  and  breathless  at  the  top,  feeling  more- 
over that  she  must  by  all  means  make  a  friend 
of  this  ugly  fellow. 

The  fire  was  made,  the  pot  put  on,  the  pot 
boiled.  Then  for  a  time,  though  jaws  worked 
like  mill-clappers,  it  was  to  better  purpose  than 
words.  But  when  the  last  shred  of  garlic  or  last 
gobbet  of  pork  had  been  fished  up,  when  the 
wine-skin  was  flabby,  the  last  crust's  memory 
faded  from  the  toothpick,  Petruccio  slapped  Sil- 
vestro on  the  knee. 

"  Now,  comrade,"  cried  he,  "  we'll  have  the  Jew 
for  dessert." 

"  The  Jew,  the  Jew !  Now  for  the  Jew !  "  went 
the  chorus. 

Silvestro  coloured.  "  The  Jew  ?  Eh,  well,  I 
killed  him  —  ecco !  " 

The  flaming  logs  lit  up  a  ring  of  tense,  pale 
faces  —  not  one  of  which,  Silvestro  saw,  would 
rest  content  with  that.  The  interrogatories  be- 
gan, a  dropping  fire  of  them. 

"How  did  you  do  it?" 

"  With  my  knife,  of  course." 


ii2  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

"  Where  did  you  strike  ?  " 

"  Under  the  ribs.  I  took  him  by  his  great 
goat's  beard,  the  old  dog,  and  jerked  up  his  head 
— so.     Then  I  drove  in  between  his  ribs — ping!" 

Surely  that  would  do?     Not  at  all. 

"  The  left  ribs  ?  " 

"  Ah ! " 

"  Did  he  gurgle  ? " 

"  Didn't  he  !  " 

"  Blood  choked  him  —  eh  ?  " 

"  Per  Bacco  !  " 

"  You  stabbed  him  on  the  stair  ?  " 

"  Gia !  " 

"  Did  he  roll  down  ?  " 

"  No,  no;  he  just  lay  where  he  fell." 

"  Why  did  you  kill  him  ?  "  said  Castracane,  sud- 
denly —  bolt  upright. 

This  was  awkward.  Silvestro  fenced.  "Eh, 
corpo  di    Bacco,  why  does   one  kill  the  Jews?" 

The  others  at  first  took  the  same  side.  Why, 
indeed  ?  The  question  seemed  absurd.  Did  they 
not  crucify  young  children,  and  eat  them  after- 
wards ?  Did  they  not  kill  Gesu  Cristo  ?  Every- 
body knows  that  they  did ;  and,  as  for  proof,  look 
at  them  with  a  dish  of  pork.     Ugh  ! 

But  Castracane  blinked  his  small  eyes,  and 
held  to  it. 

"Did  you  kill  him  because  of  Gesu  Cristo?" 
he  asked. 

Silvestro  shrugged.  "  It  was  partly  that,  of  course." 

"  What  else  ?  " 

Silvestro  grew  hot — desperate.  Why,  after  all, 
would  one  kill  a  Jew?  Something  must  be  urged, 
something  solid. 


IPPOLITA   IN  THE   HILLS  113 

11  There  was  Annina,  you  know,"  said  Silvestro, 
at  his  wit's  end. 

"  Annina  —  that  girl  you  were  with  ?  What  of 
her  ?  "     Castracane  licked  his  lips. 

"  Well,  this  Jew,  you  must  understand,  was  a 
limber  young  fellow  —  " 

"  Young  !  "  shouted  the  other.  "  You  told  me 
he  had  a  great  grey  beard  like  a  goat." 

"  It  wasn't  very  grey  —  not  so  grey  as  a  goat's. 
Well,  he  was  always  following  Annina  about, 
making  her  presents,  cadging  for  favours.  Acci- 
dente  !  I  couldn't  stand  it,  you  must  know.  So, 
thinking  of  Annina,  and  of  Gesu  Cristo,  and 
one  thing  and  another,  I  decided  to  follow  him 
back  to  the  Via  Gatta  —  and  so  I  did." 

Andrea  leaned  forward,  hoarsely  whispering 
(blessed  diversion  ! )  — 

"  Say,  Silvestro,  what  colour  was  the  Jew's 
blood  ? " 

Silvestro  opened  wide  those  blue  eyes,  which 
had  wrought  such  havoc  among  the  Paduan 
nobility. 

"  Black,  Andrea !  "  he  whispered  again ;  "  black 
as  pig's  blood  !  " 

Andrea  crossed  himself.  "  Pio  Cristo,"  he 
prayed,  "  let  me  kill  a  Jew  some  day ! " 

Even  then  Castracane,  the  sceptic,  was  not 
satisfied.  "All  I  know  is,"  said  he,  "that  I  saw 
a  Jew  cutting  bread  at  the  Albero  Verde  last 
Martinmas,  and  he  slipped  into  his  own  thumb, 
and  came  off  as  red  as  a  dog's  tongue.     Bah ! ' 

"Damn  the  Jew,"  said  Petruccio,  yawning; 
"  let's  go  to  sleep,  boys." 


VII 

CASTRACANE 

She  woke  early,  with  the  full  light  of  day  in 
her  eyes.  She  felt  tired,  but  not  inert,  languid 
and  luxurious,  rather,  and  explored  to  the  full  the 
happiness  of  stretching.  Round  about  her  were 
huddled  the  drowsy  boys ;  on  the  slopes  of  the 
steep  place  where  she  lay  she  could  see  the  goats 
browsing  on  lentisk  and  juniper,  acanthus,  bram- 
ble, mountain-ash.  Misty  on  the  blue  plain  lay 
Padua,  a  sleeping  city,  white  and  violet  —  remote 
now  and  in  every  sense  below  her  and  her  con- 
cerns. The  sky  was  without  cloud,  very  pale 
still,  glowing  white  at  the  edge ;  the  sun  not  yet 
out  of  the  sea.  The  freshness  of  the  air  fanned 
her  deliciously ;  larks  were  climbing  the  sky  sing- 
ing their  prick-song,  scores  of  finches  crossed  the 
slopes,  dipping  from  bush  to  bush.  Ippolita 
clasped  her  hands  behind  her  head,  and  looked 
lazily  at  all  this  early  glory.  The  freedom  of  her 
heart  seemed  explicit  in  that  of  her  limbs.  What 
she  could  do  with  her  legs,  for  instance !  How 
she  could  sprawl  at  ease !  She  was  just  like  all 
the  others — as  ragged,  as  dirty,  at  least;  and  soon 
she  would  be  as  brown.  Dio  buono,  the  splendid 
life  of  a  goatherd  ! 

114 


IPPOLITA   IN   THE   HILLS  115 

Then  she  found  that  Castracane  was  watching 
her  out  of  one  wicked  eye.  He  had  rolled  over 
on  to  his  belly,  his  face  lay  sideways  on  his  hands ; 
one  eye  was  shrewdly  on  her.  She  considered 
him,  rather  scared,  out  of  the  corner  of  hers. 
Decidedly  he  was  a  sulky  boy  — ■  you  might  say  an 
enemy.  As  unconcernedly  as  she  could  she  got 
up,  stretched  herself  with  elaborate  ease,  and 
strolled  off  along  the  edge  of  the  hill.  Castracane 
followed  her ;  she  affected  not  to  know  it ;  but  her 
heart  began  to  quicken,  and  when  he  was  close 
beside  her  she  found  that  she  had  to  look  at 
him. 

"Good  morning,  Castracane,"  says  Silvestro. 

He  grunted.  "  Look  here,  Silvestro,"  he  began, 
"  about  that  Jew  —  " 

The  accursed  Jew,  who,  so  far  from  denying 
the  resurrection  of  the  dead,  seemed  a  standing 
proof  of  it !  Was  she  never  to  have  done  with 
the  Jew? 

"  Well,  what  about  him  ?  " 

"  Did  you  kill  him  or  not  ?  That's  what  about 
him." 

"  I  told  you  last  night." 

"  Yes,  but  I  don't  believe  it." 

II  What ! " 

II I  don't  believe  it.     Now  then  ?  " 

Silvestro  looked  about  for  help :  they  were  out 
of  sight  of  the  others,  and  there  lay  Padua,  slum- 
brous in  the  plain.  It  seemed  as  if  Castracane 
meant  quarrelling.     Well,  what  must  be,  must  be. 

"  I  don't  care  whether  you  believe  it  or  not. 
Now  then  ?  "  The  blue  eyes  were  steady  enough 
on  the  black  by  this  time. 


n6  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

"  Look  here,"  said  Castracane  after  a  pause, 
"  I'll  fight  you  if  you  like.     That'll  settle  it." 

Silvestro  laughed  nervously.  "Why  should 
we  fight,  Castracane?  Besides,  we  have  no 
knives.     How  can  we  fight  ?  " 

"  Like  this,"  said  the  other  between  his  teeth. 
His  left  arm  whipped  out,  like  a  lizard's  tongue, 
and  Silvestro  lay  flat  on  his  back  among  the 
cistus  flowers,  seeing  ink  and  scarlet  clouds. 

"  Stick  a  Jew  indeed  !  "  cried  Castracane.  "  Stick 
a  grandmother !     Why,  you're  as  soft  as  cheese ! " 

Silvestro's  shoulders  told  a  tale.  He  had 
turned  on  his  face,  but  his  shoulders  were 
enough.  Lord,  Lord,  look  at  that!  Scorn  in 
his  conqueror  gave  way  to  amazement,  amaze- 
ment to  disgust,  disgust  to  contempt.  Last  came 
pity.  Who'd  have  thought  such  a  leggy  lad  such 
a  green  one  ?  He  was  crying  like  a  girl.  Cas- 
tracane had  no  malice  in  him :  he  was  sorry  for 
those  sobbing  shoulders.  He  stooped  over  the 
wreck  he  had  made,  and  tried  to  put  it  together 
again. 

"Come,  Silvestro,"  he  said  gruffly,  "I  never 
meant  to  hurt  you." 

The  wet  face  was  up  in  a  moment  —  red  and 
wet  and  angry. 

"  It's  not  that!  It's  not  that!  I  never  killed 
the  Jew  —  there!  But  I  was  a  stranger,  and  I 
tried  to  be  friendly,  and  you  hated  me.  I  hate 
being  hated.  Why  should  you  hate  me  ?  What 
have  I  done  ?  " 

This  was  too  subtle  for  the  youth.  "  The  trouble 
was,"  he  said,  "  that  I  hit  you  in  the  right  place. 
That's  the  knock-out  blow,  that  one.     Morte  di 


IPPOLITA   IN   THE,  HILLS  117 

Ercole,  and  down  you  went!     Well,  I'm  sorry; 
will  that  do  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes  —  I  want  no  more.  Let  us  be  friends, 
Castracane." 

"  Benissimo." 

He  helped  his  late  enemy  up ;  they  kissed  each 
other,  then  sat  together  on  the  grass  —  admirable 
friends. 

"  So  you  didn't  kill  the  Jew  ?  "  Castracane  began. 
"  I  knew  it !     But  what  did  you  do  to  run  away  ? " 

"  Ah,  you  mustn't  ask.  Indeed,  I  can't  tell  you. 
It  was  rather  bad." 

Castracane  looked  keenly  at  his  new  friend. 
"  Was  it  a  girl  ?  "  he  said. 

Silvestro  blushed.     "  Yes,  it  was  a  girl." 

"  Ah,  ah !  Then  I  say  no  more.  I  like  girls 
myself.  But  they  get  you  into  trouble  quicker 
than  anything.  You  would  rather  not  tell  me 
any  more  —  quite  sure  ?  " 

"  No,  I  can't  indeed.  Let's  talk  of  something 
else.     How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  Seventeen." 

"  I'm  not  sixteen  yet.  Is  Castracane  your  *eal 
name  ? " 

Castracane  looked  pleased. 

"  I'm  glad  you  asked.  No ;  they  call  me  that 
among  ourselves,  because  of  a  little  knack  I  have; 
but  my  name  is  Pilade." 

"  That's  a  very  nice  name,"  said  Silvestro. 

11 1  believe  you  —  it's  a  splendid  name.  There's 
no  better.  It's  the  name  of  a  Roman  —  Emperor 
of  Rome  and  Sultan  of  Padua  he  was  —  who 
killed  a  giant  called  Oreste,  having  first  caused 
him  to  become  a  Christian." 


n8  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

"  But  why  did  he  kill  him  when  he  had  made  a 
Christian  of  him  ? "  asked  Silvestro,  greatly  in- 
terested ;  "  or  why  did  he  make  him  a  Christian, 
if  he  was  going  to  kill  him  ?  " 

"  Pouf !  What  questions  !  "  cried  Castracane. 
"  He  made  him  a  Christian  because  he  was  a  good 
Catholic  himself,  and  killed  him  for  being  a  giant, 
of  course.  Or  take  it  this  way.  If  he  hadn't 
been  a  Christian,  how  could  he  have  made  a  good 
death  ?  He  couldn't,  naturally.  So  the  Emperor 
christened  him  first  and  killed  him  afterwards  — 
ecco !     It's  always  done  like  that,  they  tell  me." 

"  I  see  it  now,"  said  Silvestro ;  "it  was  very  fine. 
I  like  your  name  of  Pilade  best.  I  shall  always 
call  you  that,  if  you  will  let  me." 

"  Call  me  what  you  like,"  says  Pilade.  "  Let's 
go  and  wake  the  others.  I'm  as  hungry  as  the 
devil  with  all  this  talking." 

The  result  of  this  was  that  Silvestro  became 
Pilade's  foot-boy,  his  slave.  The  lout  was  in 
clover;  nothing  could  have  suited  him  so  well. 
No  more  goats  to  herd  in  the  heat  of  the  day  —  Sil- 
vestro would  do  it;  no  share  of  foraging  for  him; 
no  more  milk  to  carry  into  the  valley;  no  more 
fires  to  make  up;  nor  strays  to  follow;  nor  kids  to 
carry  to  new  pastures  —  Silvestro  would  do  it. 
The  luxurious  rascal  lay  out  the  daylight  stretched 
on  his  back  with  his  hat  over  his  eyes ;  he  woke 
only  for  his  meals.  He  would  not  be  at  the  pains 
even  to  swathe  his  own  legs  or  strap  his  own  san- 
dals. Silvestro,  bathed  in  sweat,  his  fair  skin  burnt 
and  blistered,  his  delicate  hands  and  smooth  legs 
scratched  by  brambles,  his  slender  neck  bowed 
beneath   the   weights    he   carried    on    shoulders 


IPPOLITA   IN   THE   HILLS  119 

stretched  to  cracking  point — Silvestro  worked 
from  dawn  to  dusk,  rejoicing  in  the  thankless 
office.  Thankless  it  was,  since  Master  Pilade 
took  no  sort  of  notice ;  yet  Silvestro  gave  thanks. 
Pilade  allowed  the  other  to  stoop  to  his  shoe-ties, 
to  wind  the  swathes  about  his  sturdy  calves,  to 
carry  his  very  cloak  and  staff,  while  he  slouched 
along  with  hands  deep  in  breeches'  pockets,  and 
his  hat  pulled  down  to  his  nose.  Silvestro  would 
proudly  have  carried  him  too,  had  that  been  pos- 
sible. Most  unmanly  of  Silvestro,  all  this  ;  but 
the  rogue  he  petted  was  too  snug  to  consider  it. 
At  the  falling-in  of  night,  having  his  belly  full  of 
meat  and  drink  (which  Silvestro  had  prepared  and 
served  him  with),  he  might,  if  the  mood  took  him, 
pull  out  his  reed  pipe. 

"  Silvestro,"  he  might  say,  "  you  have  been  use- 
ful to-day;  perhaps  I'll  play  you  something." 

And  the  beautiful  Silvestro  (tanned  counterpart 
of  the  Glorious  Ippolita)  would  hang  upon  the 
melancholy  noise,  and  observe  with  adoring 
interest  every  twitch  and  distension  of  the  fat- 
cheeked  hero ;  and  at  the  end  sigh  his  content, 
saying  — 

"  Ah,  thank  you,  Pilade ;  you  have  been  very 
kind  to  me." 

"  The  truth  is,"  Pilade  would  allow,  "lama 
good-natured  devil  if  you  take  me  the  right  way. 
I'll  tell  you  what,  Silvestro;  you  have  pleased 
me  to-day.  You  may  sleep  at  my  feet  if  you  like : 
it  will  keep  them  warm,  to  begin  with,  and  you'll 
be  near  me,  don't  you  see  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,  dear  Pilade,"  cried  the 
enraptured  Silvestro. 


120  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

The  world  is  a  very  odd  one,  and  it  is  most 
true  that  the  man  who  is  for  taming  hearts  should 
pursue,  ostensibly,  any  other  calling.  Not  that 
Pilade  had  that  in  view.  He  only  sought  to  be 
comfortable,  good  lad. 


VIII 

RESURRECTION    OF   THE   JEW 

This  idyllic  state  of  things  might  have  lasted 
no  one  knows  how  long,  with  Ippolita-Silvestro 
finding  joy  in  unreasonable  service,  and  Pilade 
both  ease  and  reason.  Where  either  partner  was 
so  admirably  suited  it  might  have  been  interest- 
ing to  see  what  would  have  happened :  whether 
Ippolita  would  have  betrayed  herself  or  Pilade 
found  her  out.  She  was  over  head  and  ears  in 
love,  but  he  was  vastly  well  served ;  and  there 
is  nothing  like   content   for   drugging   the  wits. 

Things,  however,  fell  out  otherwise.  The  Jew, 
to  begin  with,  fell  out  of  the  grave  to  which  he 
had  been  hastily  recommended,  and  most  inse- 
curely at  that.  He  made  himself  felt  in  a  variety 
of  ways,  was  discovered  by  the  gardener  in  the 
Via  di  Vanzo,  and  stuck  into  a  gutter  in  the  Via 
Man  di  Ferro.  He  was  discovered  again  by 
some  one  who  had  either  less  to  do  among  Chris- 
tians or  more  among  Jews  than  the  generality 
in  Padua;  and  this  time  he  was  carried  to  the 
Guard  House.  Being  reported  (reporting  him- 
self, indeed)  to  the  watch,  he  was  reported  on  to 
the  Capitano,  by  him  to  the  Prefect.  The  Pre- 
fect put  the  Sub-Prefect,  who  had  met  him  before, 
upon  the  look-out. 

"  The  Most  Serene  Republic,"  said  that  author- 

121 


122  LITTLE  NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

ity, "  cannot  have  unburied  Jews  adrift  in  the  city 
without  finding  out  why  the  cemetery  does  not 
hold  them  and  why  the  gutter  does.  Inquire, 
Alessandro  mio,  inquire !  There  was  a  wound  in 
the  man's  ribs  big  enough  for  a  nest  of  rats." 

Alessandro  bowed,  but  raised  his  fine  eye- 
brows. He  was  at  that  hour  most  happily  un- 
happy over  the  late  disappearance  of  his  Glorious 
Lady.  The  peerless  beauty  of  Padua,  the  incom- 
parable Ippolita,  was  gone.  His  business  was  to 
devise  dirges,  monodies,  laments,  descortz  in  the 
Provencal  manner ;  to  cry  "  Heigho  J  "  and  "  Well- 
a-day !  "  not  "  Ban !  "  or  "  Out,  haro  ! "  To  have 
these  high  frenzies,  these  straining  states  of  the 
soul,  disturbed  by  the  unclaimed  remains  of  a 
resolving  Jew,  was  a  cruel  test.  Yet,  he  reflected 
within  himself,  if  his  piercing  love  survived  this 
inquiry,  it  was  founded  on  rock.  And,  indeed, 
Alessandro  believed  that  his  heart  was  slowly 
turning  to  stone.  He  felt  a  curious  chill  there 
when  he  got  up  in  the  morning,  a  dead  weight, 
a  mass  to  lift  with  every  choked  beat.  Perhaps 
the  Jew  would  end  what  Ippolita  had  begun.  If 
so,  well.  But,  ah,  Ippolita,  Ippolita  bella,  Ippolita 
crudel !    Ah,  ohime  ! 

Habit  set  him  to  work.  He  instructed  his 
officers,  he  visited  the  gates,  questioned,  took 
notes,  inspected  the  gutter  in  the  Via  Man  di 
Ferro,  even  inspected  the  Jew.  He  went  to  the 
Via  della  Gatta,  to  the  fatal  staircase ;  he  bullied 
two  or  three  landlords  of  two  or  three  low  tav- 
erns ;  went  to  the  stews,  to  the  Ghetto ;  talked 
very  loud,  flourished  his  sword,  drove  his  men 
this  way  and  that  —  in  fine,  did  everything  that 


IPPOLITA   IN   THE   HILLS  123 

becomes  a  young  official  of  spirit.  The  result 
of  his  labours  was  that  the  Jew  got  posthumous 
fame  out  of  all  proportion  to  his  merits.  The 
city  fairly  hummed  with  him ;  nobody  talked  of 
anything  but  the  dead  Jew. 

The  goatherds,  coming  in  by  the  Porta  San 
Zuan  a  day  later,  were  shrewdly  scrutinised  by 
the  Guard.  They  were  numbered  off,  their  names 
taken ;  they  were  pulled  about  and  flustered,  asked 
questions,  contradicted  before  they  had  time  to 
answer,  and  then  called  prevaricators  because 
they  said  nothing ;  they  were,  in  fact,  brought  to 
that  state  of  breathless  hurry  in  which  a  boy  will 
say  anything  you  choose.  This,  as  everybody 
knows,  is  the  only  way  of  getting  at  the  truth. 

"  There  were  more  of  you  fellows  the  other 
night,"  said  the  Corporal  of  the  Guard.  "  Where 
are  the  rest  of  you?  Come  now,  out  with  it;  no 
lies  here  !  " 

Petruccio,  who  had  some  sense,  shammed  to 
have  none;  but  Andrea,  less  happy,  was  a  real 
fool.     At  this  invitation  he  looked  wise. 

"  Castracane  is  not  here  —  true,  but  it  wasn't 
Castracane,"  he  muttered,  and  found  his  neck  in 
a  vice. 

"  Who  was  it  then,  son  of  a  pig  ?    Who  was  it  ?  " 

"  Mercy,  mercy,  my  lord !  I  will  tell  the  truth !  " 
he  whined  as  he  twisted. 

"  Gesu  morto !  Tell  anything  else  and  I  cut  thy 
liver  out,  hound!"  swore  the  man  who  held  him. 

"Ah,  Dio!  I  will!  I  will!  It  was  Silvestro 
who  killed  the  Jew !  " 

"  You  shall  come  with  me  to  the  Signor  Sotto- 
Prefetto,"  said  his  holder.     "  There's  a  ducat  for 


124  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

me  in  this  affair."  The  poor  little  company  were 
driven  into  the  gatehouse  and  there  pent ;  but 
Andrea  went  off  between  two  archers  to  be  ex- 
amined at  greater  length  by  Messer  Alessandro, 
and  to  give  blubbering  confirmation  of  the  fact. 
All  the  unfortunate  particulars  wrung  out  of 
Silvestro  on  his  first  night  of  Monte  Ortone  — 
the  stab  under  the  ribs,  the  Jew's  beard,  his  black 
blood,  etc.,  etc. — were  now  screwed  out  of  Andrea 
and  went  to  prove  his  story. 

"  By  the  twenty-four  ears  of  the  Twelve  Apos- 
tles," swore  the  Corporal,  "  we've  got  him  at  last, 
Messere." 

The  Sub-Prefect  felt  that  he  must  act  upon  this 
news.  So  much  insistence  had  been  laid  upon 
the  affair  by  his  chief,  he  dared  not  send  his  Lieu- 
tenant :  he  must  go  himself.  This  is  what  comes 
of  neglecting  new-killed  Jews !  he  might  have 
thought.     He  little  knew  what  was  to  come  of  it. 

Two  mounted  men,  Andrea  with  a  rope  round 
his  neck,  himself  very  splendidly  booted  and  cui- 
rassed,  made  up  a  sufficient  cavalcade  to  fetch 
home  one  snivelling  goatherd.  It  was  four  by 
the  time  they  were  off,  seven  before  they  were 
at  Abano,  eight  when  they  reached  the  foot  of 
Monte  Ortone  and  faced  the  deep  chestnut  woods 
in  which  that  precipice  dips  his  flanks.  But 
though  it  was  getting  dusk  there  were  eyes  sharp 
enough  on  the  top  of  the  mountain  to  watch  for 
what  sharp  ears  had  heard  —  a  most  unaccus- 
tomed sound  in  those  leafy  solitudes  —  trotting 
horses  and  jingling  steel.  Castracane  from  the 
summit  saw  it  all;  and  what  is  more,  guessed 
at  once  what  Andrea  in  a  halter  meant. 


IX 

PYLADES    FINDS    HIS    ORESTES 

"  Silvestro,"  he  called  softly,  without  moving 
from  his  ambush  or  turning  his  eyes  from  those 
he  watched,  "  Silvestro,  come  here  !  " 

The  obedient  stripling  came  eagerly,  and  knelt 
as  close  to  his  master  as  he  dared  —  just  so  as  to 
touch  him. 

"  Eccomi,  Pilade,"  says  he. 

"  Get  back  over  the  brow  as  fast  as  you  can," 
said  his  friend,  "  and  hide  in  the  cave.  Wait 
there  till   I  come.     Go  now;  do  as  I  bid  you." 

Silvestro  went  at  once. 

Castracane  squared  his  jaw  and  waited.  Every 
now  and  then  he  muttered  to  himself,  with  lazy 
lifted  eyebrows.  It  was  too  much  trouble  to 
shrug.  "  Poor  little  devil  —  it  would  be  a  shame  ! 
And  I  knocked  him  down  for  nothing.  And  he 
loves  me,  per  Bacco !  Certainly,  I  have  never 
been  loved  before  —  by  a  man,  I  mean  —  except 
by  my  big  old  mother  out  yonder,  and  she  is  a 
woman.  She'll  be  sorry  —  she's  old  —  eh,  she's 
horribly  old  !  Accursed,  most  rotten  ass,  Andrea! 
The  whole  story  out  of  him  —  and  a  lie  at  that. 
Cospetto !  I  can't  let  the  poor  lad  swing.  And 
I  did  knock  him  down — and  he  cried  like  a 
girl ;  but  not  because  I  grassed  him.  By  my  soul, 
I'll  do  it  —  there  then !  "  Then  he  mortised  his 
chin  in  his  brown  hands  and  blinked  while  he 
waited. 

125 


126  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

He  had  not  so  very  long ;  but  you  might  have 
given  him  an  hour,  it  would  have  made  no  dif- 
ference to  Castracane  then.  The  guard  came 
reeking  to  the  brow  of  the  hill ;  Andrea,  haltered, 
was  with  them.  Alessandro,  mopping  his  head 
and  cursing  the  flies,  came  last. 

"  Look  yonder,  Marco,"  said  one.  The  other 
said  "  Ha ! "  and  pounced  upon  his  treasure. 
He  had  him  by  the  ear  and  was  pricking  him 
with  his  sabre  in  the  fleshy  parts. 

"  Easy,  friend,"  said  Castracane ;  "  I'm  not  run- 
ning away." 

He  went  like  a  sheep  to  the  Sub-Prefect 
Andrea  watched  him  twittering. 

"  What  is  your  name,  fellow  ?  "  said  that  heated 
officer. 

Andrea's  eyes  yearned  for  his  mate's.  Cas- 
tracane gave  him  a  terrible  look. 

"  Silvestro  is  my  name,  Signore,"  says  he ;  and 
Andrea  knew  his  game. 

"  We  have  found  our  bird,  I  think,"  said  Ales- 
sandro, turning  to  his  men. 

"Yes,  Excellency,  this  is  the  lad  we  want. 
There  was  another  of  them  —  Castracane  they 
call  him." 

"  Ah,  yes.     Where  is  Castracane,  fellow  ? " 

"  He  is  over  Venda.  Gone  to  Noventa,  to  his 
mother,"  replied  Castracane. 

"Well,  we  don't  want  him  so  far  as  I  know. 
Now,  attend  to  me.  You  are  suspected  of  that 
business  in  the  Via  della  Gatta." 

Castracane  shrugged.     "  Chi  lo  sa  ?  "  says  he. 

"We  shall  see  about  that.  Meantime,  what 
have  you  to  urge  ?  " 


IPPOLITA    IN   THE   HILLS  127 

Castracane  scratched  his  head.  "  What  would 
you  have  me  say,  Messere?  I  am  a  poor  lad. 
You  are  many,  and   I  am  one." 

Alessandro  turned  to  his  archers.  "  Bring  him 
down  to  the  hermitage,"  he  said.  "  I  am  going 
to  eat  something.  Tie  him  up  and  wait  for  me 
there.  You  can  let  the  other  go.  This  is  the 
lad,  fast  enough.     Avanti !  " 

So  the  shackles  were  taken  off  Andrea's  raw 
wrists,  and  transferred  to  Castracane's ;  the  neck 
halter  was  shifted ;  Castracane  was  bond,  Andrea 
free.  Then  Messer  Alessandro  went  down  the 
hill  to  what  supper  the  hermit  could  afford. 

In  about  half  an  hour  Silvestro,  who  had  been 
fidgeting  in  the  cave,  came  out,  restless  to  have 
stayed  so  long  beyond  sight  or  hearing  of  his 
Pilade.  His  reception  by  Andrea  was  shocking. 
The  gaping  boy  sprang  forward  with  his  arms  out. 

"  Ha !     Here  is  a  terrible  affair,"  he  wailed. 

"  Our  Castracane  is  taken,  and  for  your  fault ;  he 
will  be  hanged,  and  for  you !  Make  your  supper 
of  it,  you  Jew-jerker.  What  sacrifice,  Dio  mio! 
There  has  been  nothing  like  it,  I  suppose,  since 
Giulio  Cesare  kissed  Brutus,  or  Judas  Gesu  Cristo. 
You  kissed  him  this  morning ;  you  know  you  did  ! 
You  always  do,  you  blush-faced  sneak !  And  for 
that  kiss  he  has  taken  your  sins  upon  him,  and 
is  to  be  hanged.  Fie,  Judas,  fie !  Oh,  Madonna 
Maria,  the  terrible  affair !  " 

So  ending  as  he  began,  he  danced  about  the 
hill-top,  wringing  his  hands. 

But  Silvestro,  very  pale,  came  quickly  up,  and 
laid  hold  of  him. 

"  Tell  me  all,  Andrea,"  says  he ;  "  for  I  know 


i28  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

nothing  except  that  I  love  Castracane  and  will 
save  him.     Who  has  taken  him  ?  " 

"It  is  a  lord  —  the  Sotto-Prefetto  —  the  hook- 
nosed gentleman  with  thin  eyebrows;  him  they 
call  Messer  Alessandro.  Castracane  is  tied  like 
a  netted  calf  —  his  hands  behind  him,  and  them 
to  his  neck.  What's  the  good  of  his  strength? 
He  is  as  strong  as  the  town  bull ;  but  if  he 
writhes  his  hands  he  strangles,  and  if  he  thrusts 
his  neck  he  chokes.     Ecco  !  " 

Silvestro  was  staring  down  into  the  valley. 
"  Where  is  Messer  Alessandro,  Andrea  ?  Tell 
me  quickly,  for  I  can  save  Castracane." 

"  He  is  eating  with  the  hermit  in  the  wood. 
But  what  can  you  do  ?  " 

"  You  stay  here,"  said  Silvestro  with  decision ; 
"that's  what  you  can  do.      I'll  go  down." 

The  sound  of  breaking  through  undergrowth 
was  followed  by  rapping  at  the  hermit's  door. 

"  What  do  you  want,  boy  ?  "  said  the  pious  man 
to  the  ragged  figure  in  the  dark. 

"  Messer  Alessandro,  my  reverend  —  Messer 
Alessandro  at  once." 

"  Are  you  come  about  the  Jew  ?  He  will  hear 
no  more.  He  is  eating.  He  tells  me  he  knows 
more  about  the  Jew  than  he  does  about  our  holy 
religion  —  which  is  a  dangerous  state  of  things, 
except  that  he  is  sick  to  death  of  him." 

"  It  is  not  about  the  Jew,  father,"  said 
Silvestro,  out  of  breath.  "  Tell  him  it  is 
about  —  Ippolita." 

"  Va  bene,"  said  the  hermit.     "  Stay  where  you 


are." 


Messer   Alessandro  dropped   his  tools  with  a 


IPPOLITA   IN   THE   HILLS  129 

clatter,  wiped  his  mouth,  beat  his  breast,  and  be- 
gan to  walk  up  and  down  the  cell. 

"  Send  him  in,  hermit,  send  him  in !  Forty 
ducats  if  he  has  any  news,  ten  ducats  in  any  case 
for  bringing  my  thoughts  from  Jews  on  earth  to 
Ippolita  in  Paradise.  Despatch,  despatch,  send 
me  the  goatherd." 

The  pale  apparition  of  a  fair-haired  boy,  timid 
in  rags,  cloaked  in  rusty  black,  with  bandaged 
legs,  and  his  old  felt  hat  crushed  against  his 
breast,  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"Oh,  boy!"  cried  Alessandro,  gesticulating 
with  one  hand,  "  may  you  be  my  Hermes,  my 
swiftfoot  messenger.  Tell  me  what  you  know 
of  the  divine  Ippolita  !  " 

"  I  know  where  she  is,  Signor  Sotto-Prefetto," 
says  Silvestro  huskily. 

"  Tell  me,  by  Venus  and  all  her  doves  !  " 

For  answer  the  blushing  boy  looked  ap- 
pealingly  at  Alessandro,  with  eyes  so  deeply, 
limpidly,  searchingly  blue,  with  lips  so  tenderly 
parted,  with  a  smile  fluttering  so  timidly,  and 
limbs  so  drooping  under  their  disguise,  yet  so 
quickly  transformed  from  frightened  lad's  to  bash- 
ful beauty's,  that  — 

"  Saints  of  the  Heavenly  Court  —  ah,  God  of 
Love ! "  cried  Alessandro ;  and  the  Sub-Prefect 
fell  upon  his  knees  before  the  goatherd. 

Later  you  might  have  seen  that  same  goat- 
herd enthroned  in  the  hermit's  armchair,  his 
hands  locked  in  his  lap,  his  legs  modestly  dis- 
posed, his  head  gracefully  bowed,  a  blush  on  his 
burnt  cheeks,  his  long  lashes  casting  a  shade,  his 
breath  coming  and  going  with  a  pretty  haste  — 

K 


i3o  LITTLE  NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

and  at  his  feet  a  splendid  gentleman,  booted  and 
cuirassed,  who  poured  out  voluble  assurances  of 
eternal  respect,  of  love  undying,  of  the  sov- 
ranty  of  Venus  Urania,  and  the  communion  of 
beautiful  minds. 

"  I  will  see  you  again ;  yes,  I  will  certainly  see  you 
again,  since  you  so  desire  it,"  said  Silvestro,  after 
a  good  deal  of  this.  "  And  I  will  give  you  what 
you  ask,  if  it  is  in  my  power.  But  you  must  trust 
me  so  far :  you  must  go  away  from  here,  and  wait 
till  I  send  word.  I  shall  owe  you  every  gratitude, 
every  reward  I  can  give  you.  Now,  however,  you 
must  let  me  go;  and  I  must  take  with  me  the 
goatherd,  who  is  as  innocent  of  the  Jew's  death  as 
I  am." 

"  Ah,  I  will  do  all  that  you  wish,"  sighed  Ales- 
sandro.  "  Sacred  lady,  I  will  do  it.  But  surely 
you  will  have  pity  upon  a  humble  slave  who  has 
served  you  long  and  faithfully,  and  now  is  putting 
himself  in  peril  for  your  pleasure.  Pay  me  my 
poor  fee,  lady.  Enrich  me  boundlessly  with  what 
costs  you  so  little." 

So  he  urged,  until  — 

"  Well,"  says  Silvestro,  "  I  will  do  it.  Rise  up, 
Messere ;  take  what  you  will." 

Messer  Alessandro  shut  his  eyes,  and  slowly 
rose  to  his  feet.  Having  kissed  the  goatherd's 
hand,  he  very  delicately  kissed  the  goatherd's 
proffered  cheek.  "  I  am  paid  immeasurably,  most 
holy  one,"  he  said.  "  Lead  now ;  I  will  do  what 
you  desire." 

Out  sped  Silvestro  into  the  wood,  the  Sub- 
Prefect  bareheaded  behind  him.  In  a  glade  not 
far  from  the  hermitage  sat  the  two  archers.     The 


IPPOLITA   IN   THE    HILLS  131 

horses  were  tethered  to  one  tree,  Castracane  to 
another.  Seeing  their  chief,  the  men  sprang  to 
attention;  their  astonishment  at  what  followed 
was  no  greater  than  Castracane's.  Silvestro  (that 
timid  slave),  now  as  bold  as  brass,  walked  straight 
to  him,  the  Sub-Prefect  tiptoeing  behind. 

"  Loose  him,  Signore,"  says  Silvestro. 

The  Sub-Prefect  with  a  knife  cut  his  bonds. 
"  Your  will  is  done." 

"  Thank  you,  Signor  Alessandro :  God  be  with 
you.     Come,  Pilade." 

Silvestro  took  Castracane  by  the  hand,  but  not 
before  the  gentleman  had  kissed  his  own  with 
profound  respect.  Then  Silvestro  led  his  friend 
away  through  the  trees,  and  the  Sub-Prefect  was 
understood  to  say — 

"  We  have  been  on  the  wrong  scent,  men. 
Mount.     To  the  city — Avanti !  " 

"  What's  all  this  ?  Whither  now  ?  "  stammered 
Castracane. 

Silvestro  squeezed  his  hand.  "  Oh,  dearest,  let 
us  go  to  the  cave  —  let  us  go  to  the  cave  on  the 
hill ! " 

Castracane  felt  his  friend  trembling.  Trem- 
bling is  infectious;  he  began  to  tremble  too. 

"  Yes,  yes,  we  will  go  to  our  cave,"  he  agreed 
in  a  quick  whisper. 


X 

CYMON    FINDS    HIS    IPHIGENIA 

They  struggled  upwards  through  the  bush- 
wood  and  starry  flowers.  It  was  a  scented  night, 
the  air  heavy  with  the  burden  of  midsummer. 
The  fireflies  spread  a  jewelled  web  before  their 
faces,  great  white  moths  flapped  and  droned  about 
them.  On  they  pushed,  their  hands  locked  through 
all  hazards  of  brake  or  briar :  neither  would  let  go 
for  a  whole  world,  but  Silvestro  was  always  in 
front,  leading  Castracane  for  this  once.  One 
knew  the  way  as  well  as  another;  but  Silvestro 
led  it.     They  rounded  the  hill-top. 

"  Here  we  are  at  last,"  said  Silvestro.  "  Let  us 
sit  here,  and  look  at  the  splendour  of  the  night. 
Oh,  Pilade!  Oh,  dear  friend!  How  couldst  thou 
do  so  much  for  me  ?  " 

"  What  else  could  I  do  ?  "  said  he  gruffly.  "  You 
never  killed  the  pig-Jew." 

"  Nor  did  you,  Pilade.  Tell  me  why  you  gave 
yourself  up." 

"  Because  you  didn't  do  it,  of  course." 

"  But  you  didn't  do  it  either  ?  " 

"  Well,  but  I  knocked  you  down." 

"  Did  you  do  it  because  of  that ;  or  because  — 
because  you  like  me?  " 

Pilade  grunted.     "  Suppose  I  did  ?  " 

Silvestro  sighed,  and  leaned  his  head  on  his 
friend's  shoulder. 

132 


IPPOLITA   IN   THE   HILLS  133 

"  O  wondrous  night ! "  said  he,  whispering. 
11  Look,  the  stars  are  like  moons." 

It  was  certainly  a  wonderful  night — a  night  of 
enormous  silence,  of  great  steady  stars,  of  gold- 
dusted  air,  of  a  sky  like  a  purple  dome  encrusted 
with  jewelled  lights.  The  two  boys  sat  together, 
blinking  at  so  much  speechless  glory.  Castra- 
cane's  arm  was  round  his  fellow's  shoulder;  that 
fellow's  lips  parted,  and  his  breath  came  soft  and 
eager  —  yet  too  quickly  for  ease.  It  was  certainly 
a  night  of  wonder. 

Castracane's  arm  slipped  down  to  Silvestro's 
waist;  Silvestro  sighed,  and  snuggled  into  the 
haven  it  made. 

"  O  holy  night !  "  said  he.  "  Now  might  mira- 
cles happen,  and  we  be  by." 

"  Ah,"  said  Castracane,  "  the  miracle  of  choice 
would  be  an  angel  with  a  basket  of  bread  and 
cheese  —  or  a  beautiful  maiden  to  come  and  lie 
in  one's  arms." 

Silvestro  thrilled.  Castracane  gave  a  responsive 
squeeze,  and  went  on. 

"  I  am  not  too  sure,  you  must  know,  that  one 
has  not  happened  already.  To  see  you  lead  that 
signore  by  the  nose !  You  came  swimming 
among  the  tree-stems  like  an  angel.  You  might 
have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather.  And  how 
he  kissed  your  hand !  Miracles !  Why,  if  you 
had  been  the  maiden  I  dream  about,  he  couldn't 
have  been  more  respectful.  If  you  want  miracles, 
for  example ! " 

"I  do  want  them,  Pilade.  I  want  them  very 
much. "  Silvestro  sighed  again,  and  leaned  his 
cheek  till  it  touched  his  friend's. 


i34  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

A  shock  transfused  Castracane ;  he  was  caught 
by  the  starry  influences.  Suddenly  he  turned 
his  mouth  towards  that  blushing  flower,  and 
kissed  Silvestro.     Silvestro  thrilled  but  lay  close. 

"  Buon'  Dio,  ecco  miracolo !  "  said  Castracane 
hoarsely,  and  kissed  again. 

Again  his  nestling  companion  gave  no  sign 
but  a  quiver. 

Castracane  surveyed  the  stars.  "A  miracle  has 
certainly  happened,"  he  said.  "  I  feel  very  queer. 
My  head  swims,  fingers  and  toes  tingle ;  I  seem 
to  have  hot  lead  in  my  legs.  It  may  be  that  I 
am  empty.  I  think  it  is  a  miracle;  but  as  yet 
I  see  no  angel." 

Some  quicker  thrill  of  what  he  held  made  him 
look  at  Silvestro.  At  the  same  moment  Silves- 
tro slowly  turned  his  head,  and  looked  at  him. 
What  each  saw  in  the  other's  face  beyond  a 
white  moon-shape,  what  shining  of  truth  in  the 
eye,  what  expectancy,  what  revelation  in  the  lips, 
I  know  not.  Two  pair  of  lips,  at  least,  met  and 
stayed  together. 

"O  Dio!" 

"Oh,  Pilade!  Oh,  carissimo! "  She  abandoned 
herself  to  joy. 

"  You  are  the  angel,  the  miracle  !     You  are — " 

"  No,  no,  I  am  not  an  angel ;  but  oh,  I  love 
you,  dearly ! " 

"  Ah,  la  Madonna ! " 

"  I  am  Ippolita !     I  love  you  !  " 

"  You  love  me  ?     You  are  mine  then  —  come ! " 

"  Andrea,"  said  Castracane  next  morning,  "  I 
think  the  others  will  be  back  before  noon.  You 
must  wait  here  till  they  come.     I  am  going  to 


IPPOLITA   IN  THE   HILLS  135 

take  Silvestro  over  La  Venda  to  see  my  mother, 
and  confess  to  our  curate.    It  is  good  for  the  soul." 

"  Silvestro  looks  well  this  morning,"  said  An- 
drea, with  his  mouth  full  of  bread.  "  What  a 
colour  of  dawn  !  What  shining  eyes !  He  would 
make  a  proper  Madonna  for  a  Mystery  —  eh  ?  " 

"  He  would,"  said  Castracane  laconically ;  "  a 
most  proper  Madonna.  With  a  Bambino  on 
his    lap  —  eh,    Silvestro  ?  " 

Silvestro  blushed ;  Castracane  pinched  his 
cheek,  which  made  matters  worse. 

They  took  the  road  together  through  the  deep 
hedges  of  the  valley.  Monte  Venda  rose  before 
them,  dark  with  woods.  Castracane's  arm  was 
round  Silvestro's  waist :  every  twenty  yards  they 
stopped. 

"  To  think  of  it !  "  cried  Castracane,  on  one  of 
these  breathless  halts.  "  You  to  be  like  any  one 
of  us  —  breeched,  clouted,  swathed  —  and  a  lovely 
lass  within  your  shirt  —  Madonna !  " 

"  Do  you  think  me  lovely  ? "  asked  Ippolita 
devoutly.  "  I  have  heard  that  till  I  have  been 
sick  to  death  of  it ;  but  from  you  I  shall  never  be 
tired  of  knowing  it." 

"  Blessed  Angel !  " 

"  Oh,  Pilade,  my  love !  " 

They  loitered  on. 

"  You  see  that  I  am  not  what  you  thought  me," 
said  Ippolita,  with  an  arch  look.  "  You  thought 
I  had  killed  a  Jew." 

"  Never,  per  Bacco !  "  cried  Castracane.  "  That 
I'll  swear  to." 

"  You  thought  I  was  a  boy,  even  last  night, 
dearest." 


136  LITTLE  NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

But  that  he  denied.  "  Santissimo !  Did  I  treat 
you  like  a  boy,  I  ask  you  ?  " 

"  You  knocked  me  down  once,  Pilade." 

"  Every  honest  man  knocks  his  wife  down 
once,"  said  Pilade  gravely. 

"  And  then  you  kissed  me." 

"  I  can  kiss  you  again,"  said  Pilade ;  and  did. 

I  repeat,  Padua  is  a  freakish  city.  The  Sub- 
Prefect  writes  madrigals  in  vain.  Castracane,  the 
goatherd,  sends  Silvestro  sprawling,  and  wins 
the  golden  Ippolita  for  a  willing  bride.  What 
are  we  to  make  of  it  ?     Deus  no&is  hcsc  otia  fecit. 


THE  DUCHESS  OF   NONA 

"  L'Anima  semplicetta,  che  sa  nulla, 
Salvo  che,  mossa  da  lieto  fattore, 
Volentier  torna  a  cio  che  la  trastulla." 

—  Purg.  xvi.  88. 
I 

BOCCA    BACIATA 

"  Not  unprosperous  is  your  Erasmus  in  Eng- 
land," wrote  that  man  of  wiles  to  one  Faustus, 
a  poet ;  and  then  —  "  To  touch  upon  one  among 
many  delights,  there  are  girls  in  this  land  divinely 
fair  —  soft,  easy,  and  more  wooing  than  any  of 
your  Muses.  Moreover,  they  have  a  custom 
which  cannot  be  too  much  honoured.  Where- 
soever you  go  a-visiting,  the  girls  all  kiss  you. 
With  kisses  you  come  in,  with  kisses  depart ; 
returning,  they  kiss  you  again.  Cometh  one  to 
you,  the  kisses  fly  between ;  doth  she  go  away, 
with  kisses  you  are  torn  asunder;  meeting  in 
any  place,  kisses  abound.  Go  where  you  will, 
it  is  all  kisses.  Indeed,  my  Faustus,  had  you 
but  once  tasted  of  lips  so  fragrant  and  so  soft, 
not  for  a  time  only,  but  to  your  end  of  days,  you 
would  choose  to  be  a  pilgrim  in  this  England." 
By  no  means  the  only  stranger  to  be  charmed 
by  our  welcoming  girls  was  Erasmus.  Amilcare 
Passavente,  of  a  darker  blood,  found  such  kisses 
sweet :  those  of  one  at  least  he  vowed  to  call  his 

137 


138  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

own.  What  he  made  of  them,  what  they  of  him, 
what  other  diverting  matter  appertains  to  the 
kisser  and  the  kissed,  you  shall  understand  who 
care  to  read. 

Mary  was  her  name  in  our  Lord,  Lovel  that 
of  her  father  in  the  flesh,  a  respectable  wharfinger 
of  Bankside.  Molly,  Mawkin,  Moll  Lovel,  "  Long 
Moll  Lovel,"  and  other  things  similar  she  was  to 
her  kinsfolk  and  acquaintance,  who  had  seen  her 
handsome  body  outstrip  her  simple  mind.  Good 
girl  that  she  was,  she  carried  her  looks  as  easily 
as  a  packet  of  groceries  about  the  muddy  ways 
of  Wapping,  went  to  church,  went  to  market, 
gossiped  out  the  dusk  at  the  garden  gate,  or 
on  the  old  wharf,  after  the  'prentices  had  gone, 
linked  herself  waist  to  waist  with  maiden  friends. 
Up  river  or  down,  she  trafficked  in  a  wherry,  and 
took  the  waterman's  tender  glances  as  part  receipt 
for  his  hire.  In  a  word,  this  winsome,  rosy 
creature,  grown  hardy  in  a  kind  soil,  adventured 
herself  at  ease  among  them  that  might  have  been 
her  poets,  adorers,  or  raveners,  nor  thought  to  be 
cheapened  by  the  liberty  she  employed.  She  was 
rather  shy  with  strangers,  conscious  of  her  height, 
awkward  under  observation,  blushing  to  know  she 
blushed ;  but  simple  as  the  day,  pleased  with 
flattery,  pleased  with  other  trifles  —  trinkets, 
snatched  kisses,  notes  slipped  into  the  prayer-book, 
etc.  She  told  her  mother  everything  before 
she  went  to  bed,  sat  on  her  father's  knee  when 
she  was  too  old  and  much  too  tall  for  it,  dreamed 
of  lovers,  hid  trembling  when  they  came,  had 
palpitations,  never  told  a  fib  or  refused  a  sweet- 
meat;   she   was,    in   fact,  just   the   honest,   red- 


THE   DUCHESS  OF   NONA  139 

cheeked,  pretty,  shy  simpleton  of  a  lass  you  will 
meet  by  the  round  dozen  in  our  country,  who 
grows  into  the  plump  wife  of  Master  Church- 
warden-in-broadcloth,  bears  a  half-score  children, 
gets  flushed  after  midday  dinner,  and  would 
sooner  miss  church  than  the  postman  any  day 
in  the  year.  Such  was  Molly  Lovel  at  nineteen, 
honestly  handsome  and  honestly  a  fool,  whom  in 
Bankside  they  knew  as  Long-legged  Moll. 

To  Amilcare  Passavente,  the  young  merchant- 
adventurer  from  Leghorn,  ravished  as  he  was  by 
the  spell  of  her  cool  lips,  she  became  at  once  "  La 
divina  Maria,"  or  shorter,  "  La  Diva  " ;  and  in  a 
very  light  space  of  time,  when  his  acquaintance 
with  her  and  hers  with  his  tongue  had  ripened, 
she  had  quite  a  nosegay  of  names :  Madonna  Col- 
lebianca  (my  Lady  Whitethroat),  Donna  Fiordi- 
spina,  La  Bella  Rosseggiante,  were  three  among 
three  dozen  flowers  of  speech,  picked  from  a 
highly  scented  garden  of  such  for  her  adorning. 
Amilcare  translated  them  in  his  hoarse,  eager 
voice,  helped  on  by  his  hands  (which  were  rapid) 
and  his  beseeching  eyes  (which  had  the  flattery 
of  deference),  not  only  to  Molly  apart,  but  to  all 
or  any  of  her  acquaintance  who  could  listen  with- 
out giggling.  Molly  pressed  her  bosom ;  her 
friends,  as  they  loitered  home,  said  in  each  other's 
ears,  "  Blessed  Lord,  what  will  become  of  Gregory 
Drax  ?  "  Gregory  Drax  was  the  broad-girthed 
young  master  of  a  trading-smack  which  coasted 
between  London  and  Berwick,  and  was  even  at 
that  hour  in  Kirkley  Roads,  standing  off  Yar- 
mouth. 

All  a  summer  this  endured,  but  went  no  fur- 


i4o  LITTLE  NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

ther  while  Amilcare,  new  to  the  blunt  ways  of 
the  English,  was  unable  to  stomach  their  cropped 
speech  any  better  than  their  sour  beer.  Those 
who  heard  his  florid  paraphrase  took  it  gravely, 
yet  held  by  their  "  Moll  Lovel."  They  wished 
that  Gregory  Drax  might  have  a  fair  wind  home ; 
they  wondered  what  Master  Lovel  was  about; 
trusted  that  the  black-eyed  rascal  (whose  speech 
was  too  glib,  surely,  to  be  honest)  would  not  make 
a  fool  of  the  girl.  He  very  soon  showed  them 
that,  whatever  else  he  did,  he  intended  to  make 
a  woman  of  her.  Let  them  hold,  said  he  (for 
once  expressing  his  contempt),  to  their  "  Molly 
Lovel  "  —  the  name  was  the  Shadow.  He  would 
hold,  as  at  that  moment  he  was  very  devoutly 
holding,  Molly  herself  —  aha!  the  blessed  Sub- 
stance. And  when  the  young  Molly  let  herself 
go  whither  her  soft  desires  had  long  since  fled ; 
when  she  felt  the  heart  of  Amilcare  jumping 
against  hers,  his  cheek,  his  lips,  his  soft  sylla- 
bling, her  own  breathless  replies  —  then  at  last 
Amilcare,  quite  enraptured,  finding  everything 
about  her  wonder  and  delight,  made  shift  to  catch 
up  some  waft  of  her  very  tongue,  closer  savour  of 
her  very  home,  and  called  her  on  high  his  adora- 
ble, his  unending,  his  altogether  soul-devastating, 
destroying  mistress,  "  Madonna  Mollavella."  Good 
Master  Lovel  the  wharfinger  neither  knew  his 
daughter  nor  his  father's  name  in  this  long-drawn 
compound  of  liquids ;  he  was  troubled,  very  doubt- 
ful, anxious  for  Gregory  Drax ;  but  all  Lombardy 
and  the  Emilian  March  came  to  know  it  in  time. 
Amilcare  rode  down  opposition.  Eloquence! 
Were  ever  such  cries  to  great  Heaven,  such  invita- 


THE   DUCHESS  OF   NONA  i4I 

tions  to  Olympus,  slappings  of  the  forehead,  punch- 
ings  of  ribs,  in  Wapping  before  ?  Molly  in  tears 
on  her  mother's  breast,  Amilcare  on  his  knees,  the 
neighbours  at  the  door :  Master  Lovel,  good  man, 
abominated  such  scenes.  Father  Pounce  mar- 
ried them  at  St.  Saviour's  in  Southwark ;  money 
abounded,  the  dowry  passed  from  hand  to  hand. 
On  a  gusty  November  morning  there  sailed  out 
of  the  London  river  the  barque  Santa  Fina  of 
Leghorn,  having  on  board  Amilcare  Passavente 
and  Donna  Maria  his  wife,  bound  (as  all  believed) 
for  that  port,  and  thence  by  long  roads  to  their 
country  of  adoption  —  not  Pisa,  nor  Lucca,  nor 
any  place  Tuscan ;  but  Nona  in  the  March  of 
Emilia.  No;  Erasmus  was  not  the  only  trav- 
eller whirled  about  by  English  kisses,  nor  Molly 
Lovel  the  only  simple  witch  in  turn  bewitched. 


II 

amilcare:  commerce  and  the  affections 

Molly  was  a  handsome  fool :  let  there  be  no 
doubt  about  that.  There  was  no  romance  in 
her,  though  sentiment  enough.  She  lacked  the 
historic  sense;  and  if  she  thought  of  Rome  at 
all,  supposed  it  a  collocation  of  warehouses, 
jetties,  and  a  church  or  two  —  an  unfamiliar 
Wapping  upon  a  river  with  a  long  name.  Her 
sensations  on  the  voyage  were  those  of  sea-sick- 
ness, on  the  golden-hazy  Campagna  those  of 
home-sickness  unaffected.  Affectation  of  any 
sort  was  far  from  her.  If  she  was  happy  she 
showed  her  white  teeth,  if  wretched  she  either 
pouted  or  cried;  if  she  liked  you  there  were 
kisses,  if  she  distrusted  you  she  grew  red.  But 
she  distrusted  no  one.  Why  should  she  ?  Since 
every  act  of  hers  was,  in  seeming,  a  caress  of 
personal  intention,  every  one  loved  her.  As  for 
her  husband,  when  he  was  not  sacramentally 
engaged,  he  mutely  raved  to  the  stars,  protesting 
by  his  dimmed  eyes,  moving  lips,  and  strained-out 
arms  how  every  breath  she  took  was  to  him  also 
an  inspiration.  Her  frankness,  the  truth  lucent 
in  her  eyes,  her  abounding  receptivity  — for  she 
believed  everything  she  was  told  and  objected  to 
nothing  — her  sweet  long  body,  the  tired  grace 

142 


THE   DUCHESS  OF  NONA  143 

with  which  she  carried  her  lovely  head,  her  ten- 
der, stroking  ways,  the  evenness  of  her  temper 
(which  only  that  of  her  teeth  could  surpass),  —  all 
this  threatened  to  make  of  Amilcare  a  poet  or 
a  saint,  something  totally  disparate  to  his  imme- 
diate proposals.  His  nature  saved  him  for  the 
game  which  his  nature  had  taught  him. 

In  that  great  game  he  had  to  play  Molly 
(though  he  loved  her  dearly)  must  be,  he  saw,  his 
prime  counter.  Coming  to  England  to  negotiate 
bills  of  exchange,  he  had  Molly  thrown  in.  She 
would  do  more  for  him  than  rose-nobles.  He 
ecstatised  over  his  adorable  capture ;  but  saw  no 
reason  in  that  why  he  should  not  lay  it  out  to 
advantage.  It  would  not  cheapen  in  the  chaffer ; 
on  the  contrary,  give  him  the  usufruct  for  a  few 
years,  and  he  would  be  not  only  the  happiest  but 
the  most  considerable  of  men.  Triumphant 
Bacchus !  (so  he  mused  to  himself)  what  had  he 
not  gained  ?  A  year's  pay  for  his  men,  the  con- 
fidence of  the  "  Signori "  of  Nona,  the  acclama- 
tions of  the  Piazza  and  the  Council  Chamber  at 
once  —  and  Molly  Lovel.  Hey!  that  was  best  of 
all.  For  her  sake,  and  by  her  means,  he  would 
be  Capitano  del  Popolo.  What  else  ?  That 
would  do  for  a  beginning.  If  Molly  could  turn 
his  head,  she  could  turn  other  heads,  he  supposed. 
A  turned  head  meant  a  disponable  body,  a  bend- 
ing back,  an  obsequious  knee,  even  a  carcase  at  a 
quick  hand's  discretion  ;  votes  in  Council,  delirium 
in  the  Piazza,  Te  Deum  in  the  Church.  Amilcare 
knew  his  countrymen :  he  that  knows  them  half 
as  well  will  have  no  trouble  in  conceiving  how 
these  trade-calculations  can  consist  with  a  great 


i44  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

deal  of  true  love.  And  what  was  Amilcare's 
trade  ?  His  trade  was  politics,  the  stock  whereof 
was  the  people  of  Nona,  the  shifty,  chattering, 
light-weight  spawn  of  one  of  those  little  burnt- 
brick  and  white  cities  of  the  Lombard  Plain  — 
set  deep  in  trees,  domed,  belfried,  full  of  gardens 
and  fountains  and  public  places  —  which  owed 
their  independence  to  being  too  near  a  pair  of 
rival  states  to  be  worth  either's  conquering. 
There  were  some  score  of  these  strewn  over 
Southern  Emilia  and  Romagna  in  those  days, 
and  the  time  was  almost  at  hand,  and  with  it  the 
man,  to  sweep  them  all  into  one  common  net 
of  wretchedness.  But  Amilcare  had  no  clear 
thought  of  that.  For  the  moment  Nona  was  as 
peaceful  as  Forli,  or  Rimini,  or  Pesaro,  or  Faenza, 
thanks  to  him  and  his  "  Centaurs  "  —  that  famous 
band  of  free  riders  he  had  levied  from  the 
Tuscan  hills.  Very  much  at  his  mercy,  safe 
under  the  eye  of  his  trusted  Secretary,  awaiting 
his  return,  he  fully  intended  that  peace  to  con- 
tinue when  she  fell  huddling  to  him.  It  would, 
indeed,  be  his  care ;  for  it  was  a  maxim  of  Italian 
politics  that  no  man  willingly  stirs  after  dinner. 

The  situation  was  still  pretty  delicate ;  he  had 
done  little  more  than  win  foothold.  In  the  late 
struggles  with  Parma  he  had  intrigued  with 
great  address;  sold  himself  and  his  Centaurs 
to  Farnese,  brought  that  thick-necked  hero  up 
to  the  very  walls  of  Nona,  then  (in  the  nick  of 
time)  resold  himself  at  double  the  price  to  the 
city  he  was  besieging,  and  routed  his  yester- 
day's master  by  an  attack  in  flank  just  as  the 
Nonesi  were  carrying  the  trenches  in  front.     In 


THE   DUCHESS  OF   NONA  145 

the  excitement  of  that  wonderful  hour  —  Farnese 
in  full  flight,  himself  borne  on  men's  shoulders 
round  the  Piazza,  thanksgiving  in  the  cathedral, 
clouds  of  incense,  clashing  bells,  wine  running 
in  the  Fontana  delle  Grazie  —  he  had  for  a  mo- 
ment been  tempted  to  believe  the  times  ripe  for 
a  proclamation:  "  Amilcar,  Dei  Gratia,  Nona- 
rum  Dux,"  etc.  He  had  his  treble  wages  in  his 
pocket,  the  hearts  of  the  whole  city  throbbing 
at  his  feet.  He  was  a  young  man :  tempted 
he  certainly  was.  But  Grifone  (the  Secretary) 
touched  his  elbow  and  showed  a  straightened 
lip.  He  would  not  risk  it.  He  contented  him- 
self with  a  footing,  the  Palazzo  Bagnacavallo 
rent-free,  and  the  title  of  "  Gonfalonerius  Popu- 
lorum  Libertatis,"  which  looked  passably  well 
about  a  broad  seal.  "  Pater  Patriae,"  "  Nonarum 
Dux,"  the  control  of  the  bread-tax,  —  all  should 
be  added  to  him  in  time,  if  only  the  Borgia 
could  be  fed  elsewhere.  At  the  thought  of 
that  hearty  eater  stalled  in  the  Vatican,  he  felt 
that  he  might  indeed  thank  God  for  his  lovely 
Molly.  With  her  for  decoy  even  that  game- 
bird  might  be  lured.  Lying  on  the  poop  of  the 
Santa  Fina,  his  dark  eyes  questing  over  her  face, 
her  hands  among  his  curls,  he  seemed  to  Molly 
the  wonder  of  the  world.  So  of  her  world  he 
was;  but  he  meant  to  be  that  of  his  own — a 
very  different  world. 

He  was  a  lithe,  various  creature,  this  Amilcare 
Passavente,  his  own  paradox.  Quick  as  a  bird 
of  prey  he  was,  and  at  times  as  inert;  dark  as 
night,  eagle-faced,  flat-browed,  stiff  and  small  in 
the  head,  clean-featured,  with  decisive   lips.     A 


146  LITTLE   NOVELS   OF  ITALY 

very  fluent  speaker,  hoarse  in  voice,  but  cunning 
in  the  vibrations  he  could  lend  it,  he  was  in  ac- 
tion as  light  and  fierce  as  a  flame ;  at  rest  as 
massive  as  a  block  of  stone,  impervious  to  threats 
or  prayers  or  tears.  Women  loved  him  easily, 
men  followed  him  blindly,  and  both  for  the  same 
reason  —  that  they  believed  him  ruthless  to  all 
but  themselves.  Ruthless,  indeed,  he  had  been, 
and  was  to  all  and  sundry.  Molly  was  the  one 
apparent  exception,  and  in  her  eyes  he  was  per- 
fect. For  her  immediate  comfort  this  may  have 
been  true  of  him.     He  was  a  brave  lover. 

He  taught  her  to  falter  endearments  in  his  own 
tongue :  he  was  carino,  caro  amico,  anima  mia, 
sovrano  del  mio  ctior,  and  many  other  things  yet 
more  intimate.  In  return  he  gave  her  a  homage 
which  was  not  without  a  certain  depth  because  it 
was  done  with  foresight.  He  taught  her  to  be  his 
slave  by  professing  himself  hers,  and  so  touching 
her  generosity  as  well  as  her  humility.  At  all 
this  she  was  very  apt.  There  was  a  fund  of  deep 
affection  in  the  girl,  the  makings  of  an  excellent 
wife,  a  devoted  mother — far  more  stuff  than  should 
go  to  serve  as  toy  for  a  man's  idle  hours.  Also 
she  was  very  demonstrative,  by  no  means  averse 
(quite  the  contrary,  indeed)  to  demonstrations 
on  his  part.  She  loved  to  walk  belted  by  his 
arm,  loved  to  put  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  or 
have  her  chin  lifted  that  eyes  or  lips  might  be 
kissed.  These  favours,  which  his  nation  was  ac- 
customed to  keep  at  home,  she  wore  without  self- 
consciousness  abroad.  It  enchanted  Amilcare, 
not  only  as  a  thing  beautiful  in  itself,  but  as  a 
clear  source  of  profit  in  his  schemes.     He  pic- 


THE   DUCHESS   OF  NONA  147 

tured  the  havoc  she  would  work  in  a  hall  full 
of  the  signori  —  keen  men  all  —  when  she  sailed 
through  the  rooms  offering  her  lips  to  whoso 
would  greet  them  "  English  fashion."  Why,  the 
whole  city  would  be  her  slave  —  eh,  and  more 
than  the  city !  Bentivoglio  of  Bologna,  II  Moro 
of  Milan,  Ordelaffi,  Manfredi,  Farnese,  the  Borgia, 
the  Gonzaga,  D'Este  of  Ferrara,  Riario,  Monte- 
feltro,  Orsini  —  by  the  Saint  of  Padua,  he  would 
face  them  each  with  his  beautiful  wife ;  charm 
them,  turn  their  heads,  and  then  -ping!  Let 
the  neatest  wrist  win  the  odd  trick.  Very  pleasant 
schemes  of  witchery  and  silent  murder  did  he 
make  as  the  Santa  Fina  drove  him  through  the 
dark  blue  waters  on  his  honeymoon,  and  at  last 
brought  him  up  to  point  out  to  his  adoring  in- 
strument a  low  golden  shore,  a  darker  line  of 
purple  shadow  beyond,  and  in  the  midst  a  white 
tower  which  gleamed  like  snow.  "  Civitavec- 
chia, my  queen  among  ladies !  Rome  beyond  it ; 
beyond  that  Nona- -Nona  and  glorious  life  for 
thee  and  me ! "  he  cried,  as  he  waved  her  towards 
these  splendid  things. 

But  Molly  snuggled  closer  to  him  and  sighed. 

He,  very  sensitive  to  alien  moods,  was  con- 
scious of  the  jar.  "  You  are  sad,  beloved  ? "  he 
asked  her  softly.  "You  are  thinking  of  your 
own  land  ? " 

"  No,  no,  dearest ;  not  that  now.  I  was  think- 
ing only  —  but  it  is  foolishness  of  a  fool,"  said 
Molly,  hiding  her  face. 

"  You  cannot  be  a  fool,  blessed  one,  since  you 
are  not  so  much  as  human  as  I  see  you  now," 
he  whispered,   holding  her  close.     "  You  are  a 


i48  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

rosy  god  at  this  moment,  my  treasure.  You 
are  all  colour  of  dawn,  auroral,  colour  of  tender 
fires.     Tell  me  your  thought,  my  holy  one." 

She  whispered  it  back.  "  It  was  —  that  you  will 
be  full  of  business  at  Nona,  Amilcare.  You 
will  have  no  time  to  love  your  poor  Molly." 

The  rogue  was  fishing  for  protestations,  and 
got  them. 

"  Love  you ! "  he  cried.  "  Ah,  tell  me  how 
long  I  have  to  live,  and  I  will  tell  you  the  hours 
of  my  love,  O  my  soul !  " 

"  But  you  will  be  abroad,  a-horseback,  with 
your  captains,  in  the  tents  —  " 

"  Why,  yes,  that  must  be  so,"  he  owned.  "  But 
I  shall  love  you  the  more  for  that,  Molletta." 

She  pretended  to  pout,  fidgeted  in  his  arm, 
arched  her  neck. 

"  But  how  shall  I  know  it,  Amilcare,  if  I  am 
not  there  ? " 

"  By  what  I  do  to  you  when  I  return,  dearest 
love,"  cried  he ;  and  thereafter,  speaking  by  signs, 
was  better  understood. 


Ill 

MARKET    COVERT 

They  made  Rome  a  day  or  two  after  that  little 
tender  and  exchange  of  vows,  having  disembarked 
amid  a  crowd  of  clamorous  Amilcares  in  rags  — 
she  could  see  some  dear  trait  of  him  in  each ; 
trailed  across  the  bleached  marches  (with  the 
Sabine  Hills  like  a  blue  hem  beyond);  caught 
the  sun  at  Cervetri,  and  entered  the  dusty  town 
by  the  Porta  Cavalleggieri  on  one  of  those  beaten 
white  noons  when  the  shadows  look  to  be  cut 
out  of  ebony,  and  the  wicked  old  walls  forbid- 
den to  keep  still.  The  very  dust  seems  alive, 
quivering  and  restless  under  heat.  St.  Peter's 
church,  smothered  in  rush  mats,  was  a-building, 
the  marble  blocks  had  the  vivid  force  of  light- 
ning ;  two  or  three  heretic  friars  were  being  hailed 
by  the  Ponte  Sant'  Angelo  to  a  burning  in  the 
Vatican ;  Molly  was  almost  blind,  had  a  head- 
ache, a  back-ache,  and  a  heart-ache.  Amilcare, 
who  had  fallen  in  with  a  party  of  lancers  by  the 
way,  had  ridden  for  a  league  or  two  in  vehement 
converse  with  their  lieutenant.  To  him  there 
seemed  more  to  say  than  ever  to  her.  She  felt 
hurt  and  wanted  to  cry. 

At  their  inn  they  learned  the  news  —  that  is, 
Amilcare  learned  it,  for  Molly  was   languishing 

149 


150  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

upon  a  bed,  forgotten  and  mercifully  forgetting. 
Pretty  news  it  was.  Don  Cesare,  it  appeared, 
had  stabbed  the  Duke  of  Gandia,  his  brother,  three 
nights  ago,  and  thrown  him  into  the  Tiber.  The 
body  had  only  been  fished  out  yesterday ;  it  had 
nine  wounds  in  it,  including  one  in  the  throat  big 
enough  to  put  your  fist  in.  It  was  a  sieve,  not  a 
body:  perforated!  His  Holiness?  Ah,  he  could 
be  heard  even  here,  howling  in  the  Vatican,  like 
a  bitch  in  an  empty  house.  Don  Cesare  was  in 
hiding,  reported  at  Foligno.  To-morrow  there 
was  to  be  a  Holy  Conclave  —  all  the  Cardinals. 
God  knew  what  Alexander  had  or  had  not  in  his 
mind,  the  conscience-stricken  old  dog.  It  was 
known  what  he  had  not  in  his  house,  at  least. 
Vannozza  had  been  thrice  refused  admission ;  so 
also  La  Bella  Lucrezia.     Think  of  it! 

This  was  very  grave  news  to  Amilcare's  private 
ear.  Cesare  was  his  deadly  enemy,  the  one  man 
he  honestly  feared;  the  one  man,  consequently,  he 
wanted  to  meet.  He  was  still  brooding  over  it 
when  the  broad-backed  butcher  they  call  II  Drudo 
slammed  him  on  the  back. 

"Fortune  is  with  you,  Passavente  —  the  slut! 
She  gives  you  time  to  breathe.  The  Borgia  had  a 
sinking  of  the  stomach ;  he  hankered  after  a  fill- 
ing of  Lombard  sausage  a  little  while  since.  Gan- 
dia cut  in,  and  Cesare  cut  in,  per  Bacco !  But 
mark  my  words,  Amilcare,  the  appetite  will  return. 
You  will  have  the  Duke  in  your  March  before 
many  days.  Therefore  my  advice  to  you  is  — 
Avoid  Foligno;  fortify  Nona." 

Amilcare  looked  his  man  in  the  face.  "And 
my  advice  to  myself,  Galeotto,  is  —  Seek  Foligno, 


THE   DUCHESS  OF   NONA  151 

and  so  fortify  Nona.  Addio."  He  went  out  like 
a  man  who  has  found  his  way. 

"  Now,  what  the  devil  did  the  fellow  mean  by 
that  ? "  cried  II  Drudo,  with  his  thick  fingers 
out. 

"  Devilry  expresses  it,"  said  a  sly  secretary  in 
black. 

Molly  in  dreams,  soft  as  a  child  and  glossy  with 
sleep,  looked  too  beautiful  for  a  disturbing  hand 
to  dare  anything  that  night.  It  would  have  been 
the  act  of  a  brute,  not  Amilcare's  act.  In  small 
things  he  was  all  gentleness.  He  crept  into  bed 
like  a  cat,  fearful  of  waking  her,  and  next  morn- 
ing contrived,  by  a  fit  of  coughing,  to  waken  her 
no  more  than  half.  The  rest  he  did  by  methods 
equally  adroit,  until  by  imperceptible  degrees  she 
learned  that  Rome  might  give  no  ease  to  her 
feet.  He  had  her  in  the  saddle  and  all  the  bag- 
gage-mules away  an  hour  after  the  sun. 

Arrived  at  Foligno,  he  found  that  his  great 
enemy  was  at  sanctuary  in  the  Convent  of  Oli- 
vet, biting  his  nails  in  a  red  furne  there.  Hidden 
behind  spires  of  cypress,  Olivet  stood  outside  the 
walls,  a  sun-dyed  white  building  deep  under  brown 
eaves.  Cesare,  it  was  reported,  was  quite  alone 
with  his  moods,  now  consumed  by  fidgety  re- 
morse for  what  he  might  have  lost  in  his  brother's 
blood,  now  confident  and  inclined  to  blusterous 
hilarity,  now  shuddering  under  an  obsession  of 
nerves.  In  any  guise  he  was  dangerous,  but  worst 
of  all  when  the  black  fit  of  suspicion  was  upon 
him.  So  he  now  seemed ;  for  being  told  who 
waited  upon  him,  he  refused  point-blank  to  see 
anybody.     Amilcare,  at  the  door,  heard  his  "  Vat- 


152  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

tene,  vattene !  Non  seccami!  "  ("Out,  out!  Don't 
pester  me ! ")  rocking  down  the  dim  passages  of 
the  house ;  and  Molly,  whom  this  sudden  new 
expedition  had  bereft  of  what  wit  she  had,  turned 
pale  to  hear  the  roaring  beast. 

"  Ah,  love,  love,  love,  let  us  run  away !  I  like 
not  this  empty  place,"  whimpered  the  girl,  holding 
her  husband's  arm ;  but  he  gently  removed  her 
hand,  kissed  it,  and  held  it. 

"  Courage,  dear  one ;  I  shall  be  by  thy  side. 
Much  depends  upon  this  adventure,"  he  urged 
in  fervent  whispers,  knowing  how  much  to  a 
tittle. 

To  the  monk  who  came  out,  distended  with 
Cesare's  explosives,  he  addressed  himself  in  a 
vernacular  too  fluid  for  Molly  to  catch  up. 

"  I  pray  you,  reverend  brother,  recommend  me 
yet  once  more  to  the  feet  of  his  Resplendency, 
saying  that  not  I  alone  supplicate  his  favours. 
Add  that  I  have  with  me,  to  present,  my  most 
beautiful  wife,  that  she  may  assure  him  with  her 
own  lips  how  very  much  she  is  his  slave." 

The  pantomime  of  piteous  beseeching  hands,  of 
eyebrows  exquisitely  arched,  told  more  than  his 
words.  They  showed  to  a  hair's  breadth  how 
far  he  expected,  how  far  was  prepared,  to 
tempt  his  customer.  No  pedlar  before  a  doorful 
of  girls'  sidelong  heads  could  more  deftly  have 
marketed  his  wares.  The  monk,  too,  sidled  his 
head ;  he  pursed  his  mouth,  furrowed  with  a 
finger  in  his  dewlap,  tried  to  appraise  the  wares. 
But  to  allow  this  would  have  been  to  forestall 
the    market. 

"  Ah,  for  love  of  the  saints,  go,  my  brother !  " 


THE   DUCHESS  OF   NONA  153 

he  was  entreated,  with  gentle  persistence ;  and  so 
worked  upon,  he  waddled  away. 

Amilcare  let  fall  a  hearty  sigh,  and  considered 
Molly  with  anxiety.  He  had  not  dared  to  say 
a  word  to  her  of  what  her  entertainer  was,  or 
what  her  part  should  be.  Premeditation  might 
throw  her  out  of  balance,  conscious  art  might 
exhibit  her  a  scheming  courtesan  ;  just  in  her  art- 
lessness  lay  all  her  magic.  No,  no ;  he  trusted  her. 
She  was  still  adorably  English — witness  her  on 
the  ship !  He  could  see  how  she  would  do,  how  the 
sight  would  ravish  him,  lover  as  he  was ;  for  the 
rest,  he  must  trust  to  his  early  calculations.  Yes ! 
he  was  ready  to  stake  everything  upon  this  move. 
The  Borgia  would  be  at  her  feet :  so  at  his  feet 
also.     Oh,  wise,  wise  Amilcare  ! 

"  His  Eminence  the  Duke  will  receive  your 
Lordship,"  said  the  returning  monk,  and  turned 
once  more  to  lead  the  way. 

"  My  saint,  my  lamb,  my  meek  burnished 
dove ! "  breathed  Amilcare  in  a  glow,  and  pressed 
her  to  his  heart  behind  the  frate's  broad  back. 

Cesare,  magnificently  tawny  in  black  velvet,  was 
in  a  window,  raking  with  a  white  hand  at  his 
beard,  a  prey  evidently  to  cross-tides  of  fever. 
When  his  visitors  were  announced  he  looked 
sharply  round ;  but  Molly  was  hooded,  her  face 
deep  in  the  shade.  Of  Passavente  he  had  not  the 
slightest  concern.  That  hero  was  prostrate,  bow- 
ing and  chattering,  and  explaining  with  his 
hands. 

Molly  stayed  twittering  by  the  door,  wonderful 
because  she  saw  her  King  of  Men  cringing  like 
a  footboy  before  a  shorter  than  himself.     True, 


154  LITTLE  NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

it  was  case  of  a  duke ;  but  she  had  not  known 
such  dealings  in  Wapping.  There  men  doffed 
caps  to  my  Lord  or  his  Grace ;  they  gave  and 
took  their  due,  but  did  not  writhe  on  the  floor. 
And  then  this  particular  duke's  blockish  inatten- 
tion to  what  her  lord  was  saying  filled  her  with 
concern.  There  he  leaned,  and  there  he  looked 
out  of  window  at  the  twinkling  acacias,  and  there 
he  picked  his  beard.  Amilcare's  tact  must  have 
deserted  him,  since  he  could  let  this  simple 
slave  turn  critic.  But  the  part,  in  any  case,  was 
difficult.  Presently  the  Duke  threw  him  a  hasty 
phrase,  a  sort  of  pish,  man!  which  cut  him  off  in 
the  midst  of  a  period,  and  walked  towards  Molly 
in  the  doorway.  Amilcare  flew  before  on  tenter- 
hooks. Cesare  came  graciously  on — it  was  cu- 
rious to  see  how  his  face  had  cleared.  Molly 
dropped  a  curtsy,  covering  herself  closer  with  a 
hand  at  the  hood's  tie.  Cesare  showed  his  teeth, 
held  out  both  his  hands.  Passavente,  with  a  dis- 
playing air  full  of  alacrity  and  deference,  unveiled 
his  wife,  and  she  went  forward  to  greet  his  Grace. 
She  had  been  uncovered  as  by  a  dealer,  but 
even  so  thrilled  to  feel  his  touch  upon  her  shoul- 
ders, and  showed  herself  blushing  with  the  emo- 
tion, lovelier  for  love.  Cesare  was  really  startled 
to  see  how  vividly  beautiful  she  was ;  but,  with 
more  command  of  himself  than  the  other  traf- 
ficker, was  careful  not  to  show  it.  He  smiled  yet 
more  sunnily;  his  words  were  some  pleasant, 
friendly  compliment.  Molly,  guessing  it  so,  came 
nearer,  took  his  open  hands,  and  put  up  her  face 
for  his  kiss.  Caesar  Borgia  took  a  deep  breath 
before  he  accepted  of  the  rest.     Then  he  did  kiss 


THE   DUCHESS  OF   NONA  155 

her,  twice.  He  was  ridiculously  pleased,  very 
much  in  confusion  for  a  little  while.  Since  he 
could  say  nothing  and  she  had  nothing  to  say, 
the  pair  of  them  stood  hand-clasped,  smiling,  dim- 
eyed  and  red  in  the  face,  like  two  glad  children — 
Amilcare,  anxious  mothering  hen,  clucking  about 
them.  The  Duke,  having  recovered  himself,  mur- 
mured some  courtesy,  and  led  his  captive  to  a 
seat  in  the  window.  His  half-dozen  English  words 
and  her  six  Italian,  his  readiness,  her  simplicity, 
put  matters  on  a  friendly  footing :  very  soon  Molly 
was  chattering  like  a  school-girl.  Cesare  was  en- 
chanted ;  he  recovered  his  gaiety,  forgot  his  bloody 
hands,  his  anxieties,  schemes,  fret  at  inaction.  He 
ordered  a  meal  to  be  served  at  once,  kept  Molly 
close  to  his  side,  heaped  her  plate,  pledged  her  in 
wine.  He  went  so  far  as  to  forget  all  common  pre- 
cautions and  eat  whatsoever  was  put  before  him. 

Be  sure  Amilcare  missed  nothing.  He  saw 
all,  perhaps  more  than  all :  he  was  used  to  deal 
with  men.  Thought  he  to  himself,  "  Hey  !  If 
this  was  my  house  of  Nona,  amico,  and  the  time 
six  months  hence,  you  would  sleep  where  you 
supped."  But  Cesare  had  no  thought  of  Amil- 
care until  the  end.  Then  he  clapped  him  on 
the  shoulder. 

"  My  Passavente,"  he  cried,  "  you  have  gone  far 
on  your  pearl-fishing  and  dived  deeper  than  most 
of  us,  but  by  our  hope  of  salvation  you  have  found 
a  jewel  of  price !  And  ah,  Madonna,"  he  said,  with 
his  burning  eyes  on  the  girl,  "  you  have  brought 
the  sun  into  Italy.  You  shall  be  called  Princi- 
pessa  della  Pace,  who  heal  all  sorrow  and  strife 
by  the  light  of  your  face." 


156  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

"  I  humbly  thank  your  Grace,"  said  Molly,  very 
grateful ;  but  Amilcare  dropped  upon  one  knee. 

"  Splendour,"  says  he,  "  deign  to  visit  our  poor 
house  in  Nona,  if  you  would  learn  what  will- 
ing service  is." 

"  My  friend,  be  sure  of  me,"  said  the  Borgia, 
and  meant  it.  "Do  you  bid  me  come,  Prin- 
cess ? "     His  looks  ate  her  up. 

Molly  hung  her  head.  "  I  shall  in  all  things 
serve  your  Grace,"  said  she,  with  a  curtsy.  She 
kissed  him  again,  and  then  Amilcare  took  her 
away. 

The  Borgia  wrote  sonnets  that  night. 

"  Mollavella,  pearl  of  ladies,"  whispered  her 
ardent  husband,  when  they  were  on  the  North 
Road  and  in  the  thick  of  the  violet  Roman 
night,  "  never  have  I  felt  such  joy  in  you  as 
this  day."  He  looked  up  at  the  massed  company 
of  the  stars.  "  Fiery  in  all  that  galaxy,  yonder 
I  see  my  own  star!"  he  cried  in  a  transport. 
"  Behold,  it  points  us  dead  to  the  North.  O 
Star,  lit  by  a  star !  'Tis  you  have  set  it  burning 
clear,  my  glorious  Princess." 

"  Dearest  heart,  I  shall  die  of  love,"  sighed 
swooning  Molly,  out  of  herself  at  such  praise. 
"  But  indeed  I  have  done  little  enough  for  you 
as  yet." 

"  More  than  you  think,  or  can  dream,"  he 
answered,  and  spoke  truly;  for  the  girl  saw  noth- 
ing in  their  late  visit  but  a  civility  done  to  a  great 
lord. 

"  If  the  Duke  comes  to  Nona,  Amilcare,  I 
will  try  to  put  him  at  his  ease,"  she  said  after 
a  little. 


THE   DUCHESS  OF   NONA  157 

"  Try,  try,  dear  soul ;   it  is  all  that  I  wish." 
"  He  seemed  not  so  to  me  when  first  we  went 
to  him,  Amilcare." 

Amilcare  shrugged.  "  Eh,  per  la  Madonna 
— ! "  he  began,  as  who  should  say, "  Being  known 
for  his  brother's  butcher,  how  should  he  be?" 
But  he  stayed  in  time.  "  He  has  many  enemies," 
he  added  quietly. 


IV 

MARKET    OVERT 

Nona,  little  city  of  domes  and  belfries  and 
square  loggias,  all  in  a  cluster  behind  brown 
walls;  with  gates  of  Roman  masonry,  stolid 
Lombard  church,  a  piazza  of  colonnades  and 
restless  poplar  trees  ;  of  a  splayed  fountain  where 
the  Three  Graces,  back  to  back,  spurt  water  from 
their  breasts  of  bronze — Nona,  in  our  time,  is 
not  to  be  discerned  from  the  railway,  although 
you  may  see  its  ranked  mulberry-trees  and  fields  of 
maize,  and  guess  its  pleasant  seat  in  the  plain  well 
enough.  It  is  about  the  size  of  Parma,  a  cheer- 
ful, leisurely  place,  abounding  in  shade  and  deep 
doorways  and  cafes,  having  some  thirty  churches 
(mostly  baroque),  a  fine  Palazzo  della  Ragione  in 
the  principal  square,  and  the  remains  of  a  cathe- 
dral of  the  ninth  century  glooming  behind  a  mon- 
strous facade  of  the  seventeenth,  all  whitewash, 
cornucopias,  and  sprawling  Apostles.  Thus  it 
seems  now  to  the  strayed  traveller  who,  breaking 
his  journey  at  Castel  Bolognese,  simmers  for  four 
hours  in  an  omnibus  along  with  priests,  flies,  fleas, 
and  old  women.  The  cortege  from  Papal  terri- 
tory saw  a  vastly  different  city  of  it  when  it 
approached  the  gates  in  the  early  spring  of  1494. 
The   young   leafage   shimmered    like   a   veil    of 

158 


THE   DUCHESS   OF   NONA  159 

golden  gauze,  the  poplar  buds  were  pink  and 
brown,  the  chestnuts  had  all  their  candles  afire; 
larks  by  dozens  were  abroad  in  the  clear  sky. 
Below  the  old  Rocca  del  Capitan  Vecchio  —  a 
grizzled  and  blind  block  of  masonry  on  a  spur  of 
limestone,  which  held  not  a  few  of  Ezzelin's 
secrets  —  two  miles  from  Nona,  stood  a  company 
of  boys  and  girls  in  white  garments,  their  laps 
full  of  flowers.  Their  shrill  song  of  welcome 
hailed  the  riders,  and  to  the  same  hopeful  music 
they  went  on.  The  towers  were  all  standing  in 
those  days,  the  battlements  intact ;  at  every  gate 
stood  a  guard.  The  Cathedral  of  the  Santi  Apos- 
toli  had  no  Apostles ;  its  great  front  was  a  cube  of 
unfinished  brick ;  but  colonnades  ran  in  all  the 
streets,  row  after  row  of  beautifully  ordered 
arches;  over  them  were  jutting  cornices  enriched 
with  dancing  children,  sea  monsters,  tritons,  dol- 
phins, nymphs  blowing  conches,  Nereus,  Thetis, 
and  all  their  sleek  familiars,  moulded  in  red  clay. 
The  fountain  shone,  the  displayed  Graces  jetted 
their  crystal  store ;  from  every  window  hung  car- 
pets, on  every  tower  a  gonfalon,  from  every  church- 
belfry  came  the  riot  of  bells.  The  people  were 
massed  at  the  gates,  at  the  windows,  on  roofs  and 
loggias  and  balconies  —  a  motley  of  orange  and 
blue,  crimson  and  green.  Soldiers  lined  the  ways, 
priests  with  banners  were  on  the  steps  of  their 
churches.  "  Evviva  Amilcare  !  Evviva  Madonna 
Inglese ! "  ran  like  a  river  of  sound  from  the  gates 
about  the  streets,  until,  in  the  Piazza  Grande, 
where  the  Signoria  waited  in  the  solemn  estate 
of  brocade  and  ermine,  the  volume  of  it  had  the 
throbbing  roll  of  breakers  on  a  cliff.     Thud  upon 


160  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

thud  came  "  Evviva !  "  each  with  a  shock  which 
made  pale  Molly  catch  her  breath ;  more  than 
once  or  twice  her  eyes  swam,  and  she  felt  herself 
wag  helpless  in  the  saddle.  But  Amilcare,  snuff- 
ing wine,  was  in  his  glory,  idol  of  a  crowd  he  de- 
spised and  meant  to  rule.  Proud  he  looked  and 
very  greatly  a  ruler,  firm-lipped,  with  a  high  head, 
and  a  flush  on  his  dark  cheeks. 

At  the  steps  of  the  Palazzo  della  Ragione  he 
halted,  cap  in  hand.  The  trumpeters  shrilled  for 
silence,  the  Secretary  of  the  Republic  read  a  Latin 
speech;  everybody  applauded  what  nobody  under- 
stood. Amilcare,  at  the  end  of  it,  swung  off  his 
horse  and  ran  up  the  steps.  He  embraced  the 
orator,  embraced  the  Signori  one  after  another ; 
greetings  flashed  about,  tears,  laughter,  clappings 
on  the  back.  But  he  kept  his  head  throughout: 
it  was  seen  that  he  wished  to  present  his  wife„ 
Present  her !  Enthusiasm  grew  frenzied ;  he  had 
to  battle  his  way  down  the  steps  to  regain  her  side. 
He  lifted  her  lightly  down;  hand  in  hand  they  went 
up  the  steps  again.  Molly  excelled  herself,  was  the 
wonder  of  the  whole  city.  How  she  curtsied 
to  their  lordships  —  what  a  figure  she  had  for  that 
grace  —  how  tall,  how  supple,  and  how  slim ! 
When  she  gave  her  rosy  cheek  to  each  in  turn, 
there  was  a  kind  of  caught  sob  audible  in  the 
crowd.  The  simplicity  of  the  act  brought  tears 
to  tender  eyes :  men  laughed  or  looked  haggard, 
according  as  the  trouble  took  them  ;  women,  more 
at  home  with  tears,  clung  to  each  other  as  they 
cried.  A  marvel  all  believed  her  —  an  angel  clean 
from  heaven ;  the  kiss  of  peace,  la  bocca  della 
Carita  !     A  young  Dominican  became  inspired ; 


THE   DUCHESS  OF   NONA  161 

he  showed  the  whites  of  his  eyes,  he  spumed  at 
the  lips,  began  to  mutter,  with  gurglings  in  the 
throat.  At  last  his  words  broke  strangling  from 
him  —  "O  mouth  of  singular  favour!  O  lips  of 
heavenly  dew ! "  he  stuttered,  with  a  finger  on 
high  see-sawing  to  the  rhythm :  "  O  starry  eyes 
conversant  with  the  aspect  of  angels ! "  He 
dropped  down  plump  in  a  fit,  barely  heard  at 
the  palace  door ;  but  all  the  square  surged  with 
his  cry  —  "  O  mouth  of  singular  favour !  O  starry 
eyes !     Evviva  Madonna !  " 

Men  and  women  all  told,  Molly  must  have 
been  forty  times  kissed.  Twice  forty  times 
would  not  have  sufficed  for  the  candidates  who 
jostled,  strained,  and  prayed  between  the  soldiers' 
pikes  below  the  steps.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
say  which  sex  her  pretty  artlessness  pleased  the 
more:  she  made  the  women  cry,  the  old  men 
prophesy,  the  young  men  dream  dreams.  Cer- 
tainly there  was  nobody  who  thought  ill  of  her 
for  a  performance  so  glaringly  counter  to  Italian 
ways,  whose  men  kiss  each  other  while  they  keep 
their  women  at  home.  The  thing  was  so  transpar- 
ent, done  in  such  pure  good  faith,  there  was  no 
room  for  judgment  in  it.  She  went  among  that 
people  as,  in  these  days,  a  child  still  might  go.  To 
those  bullet-headed  captains,  grim  and  shaven  close ; 
to  those  painted  great  ladies,  whose  bare  necks 
looked  the  more  naked  for  their  jewels ;  to  those 
cruddled,  be-robed  old  men ;  to  the  dapper  sons  of 
them;  to  their  stiff -laced  daughters — Molly  went 
blushing,  smiling,  shy,  and  glad,  and  to  each  she 
gave  her  fresh  cheek  and  the  balm  of  her  Eng- 
lish lips.     O  mouth  of  singular  favour !    O  starry 

M 


1 62  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

eyes!  She  bereft  them  of  compliments  by  her 
speechless  welcome,  overcame  policy  by  having 
none,  led  captivity  captive.  Amilcare  might 
hover  behind  her  with  plots,  a  delighted  and  for- 
gotten shade:  Molly  Lovel  of  Bankside  was 
Duchess  of  Nona,  and  might  have  been  Queen 
of  Italy,  if  all  Italy  had  stood  in  the  Piazza 
Grande.  She  was  throned  at  a  banquet,  escorted 
home  by  the  Signoria  bareheaded ;  she  was  sere- 
naded all  night  by  relays  of  citizens,  by  straining 
poets,  by  all  kinds  of  music.  She  had  not  a  wink 
of  sleep  till  morning,  nor  the  faintest  idea  what  it 
was  all  about. 

There  was  no  withstanding  the  popular  voice ; 
the  Nonesi  went  mad  to  be  a  Duchy,  with  Molly 
for  Duchess.  Amilcare  might  be  thrown  in. 
They  besieged  the  Bagnacavallo  C or  tile ;  they 
wrote  sonnets  and  madrigals,  and  sang  them 
day  in  day  out.  Amilcare,  acting  with  admir- 
able discretion,  kept  very  much  to  himself;  he 
sent  his  beautiful  wife  on  to  the  balcony  twice 
a  day  to  be  saluted,  and  (more  sparingly)  let 
her  work  for  him  among  the  higher  sort  with 
her  lips,  her  blushes,  and  her  friendly  grey 
eyes.  He  was  humble  in  the  Council,  sober 
beneath  the  heaped-up  honours  of  the  popular 
voice,  stern  only  with  his  mercenaries.  A  fort- 
night of  this  swept  him  to  the  top  of  his  hopes. 
A  deputation,  with  a  laurel  crown  and  the  title 
of  Dux  in  a  casket,  waited  upon  him.  He  had 
expected  it  for  a  week,  and  carefully  dragooned 
his  Molly. 

"  I  must  refuse  the  thing,"  he  told  her,  "  for 
your  dear   sake,    my   angel.     The   fatigues,    the 


THE   DUCHESS   OF   NONA  163 

affairs  of  a  Ruler  of  State  are  incredible.  I  will 
never  let  you  bear  them.  The  Signori  may 
pluck  their  beards  out  by  the  roots.  I  am  re- 
solved."    Molly  wept  to  hear  him. 

When  the  ereat  mornins:  came  —  a  luminous 
April  day  of  showers  and  warm  wind  —  he  was 
as  good  as  his  word.  Molly,  shining  with  pride 
in  him  (herself  wearing  the  day's  "  uncertain 
glory "),  saw  him  fold  his  arms  in  face  of  the 
pompous  line  of  men  his  seniors,  compress  his 
mouth,  shake  his  cropped  head.  The  deputation 
was  much  taken  aback,  the  crowd  drove  hither 
and  thither;  she  saw  head  turned  to  head, 
guessed  at  wounds  which  certainly  any  one  there 
was  incapable  of  feeling.  She,  however,  felt 
them,  rose  up  from  her  chair,  laid  a  hand  upon 
her  lord's  arm  :  they  saw  her  plead  with  him.  Oh, 
lovely  sight !  with  her  they  too  began  to  plead : 
"  Pieta  di  Nona,  S ignore !  Pieta  di  noi,  Madonna ! " 
She  was  their  graceful  choragus ;  or  rather,  she, 
like  some  slim  daughter  of  the  Greeks  —  Iphige- 
nia  or  another  —  voiced  the  protagonist's  part ; 
and  they  wailed  after  her,  a  chorus  of  elders. 
Finally,  she  knelt  to  him,  wound  her  arms  about 
his  hips,  put  up  her  entreating  face.  The  com- 
edy was  played  out.  Amilcare  showed  him- 
self shaken;  he  stooped  to  her,  lifted  her  in  his 
arms,  embraced  her.  "  O  mouth  of  singular 
favour!"  etc.  The  convocation  broke  up  in 
sobs,  psalmody,  and  kisses  on  the  cheek.  Amil- 
care and  his  wife  were  led  to  the  broad  window 
and  out  on  to  the  loggia.  There  stood  Molly  in 
all  the  glow  of  her  happy  toil,  quick-breathing, 
enraptured,  laughing  and  afire.     The  crown  was 


1 64  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

on  her  head,  by  her  side  her  sceptred  lord;  and 
below  the  people  cheered  and  howled.  "  Udite, 
citt  adini,  il  vostro  Capitano  !  "  cried  the  heralds. 
"Duca!  duca !  Evviva  Amilcare,  Duca!"  cried 
the  throng.  Then  Amilcare  pointed  to  the 
crowned  girl.  "  Evviva  la  Madonna  di  Nona ! " 
he  brayed  like  a  tube  of  brass.  So  as  Madonna 
di  Nona  they  knew  her  to  the  end.  Amilcare 
was  crowned  with  his  laurel  wreath  in  the  Santi 
Apostoli ;  Te  Deum  was  sung.  Nona  started  on 
her  new  career  —  benevolent  despotism  tempered 
by  a  girl's  kisses. 


V 

GRIFONE AMATEUR   OF    SENSE 

Grifone  must  now  be  lifted  into  the  piece, 
Grifone  the  grey-eyed,  self-contained  little  Secre- 
tary, whose  brain  seemed  quicksilver,  whose  acts 
those  of  a  deliberate  cat,  whose  inches  were  few, 
whose  years  only  tender.  One  of  Amilcare's 
rare  acts  of  unpremeditated  humanity  had  been 
to  snatch  him,  a  naked  urchin  of  nine,  from 
Barga,  when  (after  a  night  surprise)  he  was  rain- 
ing fire  and  sword  and  the  pains  of  hell  upon 
that  serried  stronghold  of  the  hills. 

"  Eh,  Signore,  Signore !  "  had  whined  the  half- 
famished  imp,  padding  by  the  condottiere's 
stirrup. 

"  Va  via,  vattene  al  diavolo ! "  a  musketeer 
growled  at  him,  and  tried  to  club  him  down. 

Amilcare  looked,  as  one  might  idly  glance  at  a 
shrew-mouse  in  the  path.  He  saw  a  brown  body 
pitifully  lean,  a  shock  black  head,  a  pair  of  pierc- 
ing grey  eyes.  Further,  he  saw  that  the  child 
had  not  on  a  stitch  of  clothing,  and  that  he  was 
splashed  to  the  knees  with  drying  blood. 

"  What  now,  Baby  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Lift  me  into  the  saddle,  Signore,"  said  the 
boy,  with  a  propitiating  grin ;  "  I  am  getting  my 
feet  wet." 

The  little   dog  had  a  humorous  twist  to  his 

165 


1 66  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

eyebrow,  and  it  was  true  enough  that  the  kennels 
were  running  red. 

"  Whose  blood  is  that  on  your  legs,  my  lad  ?  " 
Passavente  stayed  his  charger. 

Grif one  shrugged.  "Misericordia!  Who  knows? 
My  father's  perhaps ;  my  mother's  more  certainly, 
since  my  father  ran  away.  My  mother  would 
have  run  too,  but  she  had  no  time.  Eh,  take  me 
up,  Signore  !     I  cannot  swim." 

Amilcare  swung  him  up  by  the  hand,  so  saved 
his  life.     Next  day  Grifone  saved  his. 

They  burnt  a  monastery  in  the  plain  and  ran- 
sacked a  chestful  of  correspondence. 

"  Death  of  Christ,"  swore  Passavente,  "  I  can't 
read  this  Latin.  Go  and  fetch  me  a  monk  and  a 
rope." 

The  monk,  a  plausible  rogue,  began  to  read : 
little  Grifone  stood  by  the  table.  At  a  certain 
point  he  broke  into  the  recital  with  an  emphatic 
word :  "  Liar  !  " 

"  What  the  deuce  does  this  mean  ? "  fumed 
Amilcare  in  a  rage. 

"  The  monk  is  deceiving  your  Lordship,"  said 
Grifone ;  "  the  sense  is  the  opposite  of  what  he 
reports." 

It  seemed  that  the  boy  knew  Latin  —  at  any  rate, 
enough  to  hang  a  few  monks.  Hanged  the  poor 
devils  were,  and  after  that  very  much  was  made 
of  Grifone.  Amilcare  took  him  through  all  his 
campaigns,  had  him  well  taught,  gave  confidence 
for  confidence,  and  found  by  the  time  he  was  at 
Nona,  making  his  "  Gran  Tradimento"  of  Farnese, 
that  he  could  not  get  on  without  him.  The  ac- 
cepted remedy  for  such  a  state  of  the  case  was 


THE   DUCHESS  OF   NONA  167 

to  kill  the  youth  at  once.  Amilcare  did  not  do 
that,  and  at  first  was  able  to  bless  himself  for 
his  second  forbearance.  Grifone  was  privy  to 
all  his  master's  hopes  and  safeguards ;  Grifone 
wrought  upon  the  Signoria,  cajoled  the  clergy, 
bamboozled  the  popolani,  descended  even  to  the 
ragamuffins  in  the  gutters,  and  taught  them  how 
to  shout  "  Duca !  Duca ! "  when  his  master  went 
proudly  a-horseback,  or  to  scribble  his  effigy  in 
great  chalk  circles  on  the  city  walls.  Though 
it  may  be  true  that  Molly's  graces  brought  Amil- 
care the  crown  of  Nona,  it  must  be  added  that 
neither  Molly  nor  her  Duke  could  have  got  in  at 
all  if  Grifone  had  not  been  there  to  oil  the  hinges 
of  the  gates. 

He  had  the  soft  purring  ways  of  a  cat,  the  tact 
of  a  Jesuit,  the  penetration  of  a  money-lender, 
the  sensibility  of  a  musical  amateur,  and  the 
morals  of  a  maid-of-honour.  He  had  extraor- 
dinary command  over  himself ;  he  seemed  able  to 
do  everything  and  wishful  to  win  nothing.  There 
never  was  a  young  man  (as  a  matter  of  fact)  who 
wanted  so  much  or  asked  so  little.  It  was  the 
very  boundlessness  of  his  desires  which  reined- 
in  him.  The  appetite  of  the  Caesars  would  not 
have  represented  his,  all  the  gratification  they 
could  have  commanded  would  have  been  for  him 
but  a  whet.  If  he  had  a  weak  side  it  was  his 
own  astuteness :  he  could  not  always  see  how 
unutterably  foolish  a  man  might  be  if  he  were 
let  alone.  Another  foible  he  had  —  intellectual 
appreciation  of  beauty  pushed  to  fainting-point. 
His  senses  were  so  straitly  tied  to  his  brains  that 
to  pluck  at  one  was  to  thrill  the  other.     Made  on 


1 68  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

a  small  scale,  he  was  pretty  rather  than  hand- 
some, had  quiet  watchful  eyes,  a  smiling  mouth, 
very  little  hands  and  feet.  He  seldom  dressed 
out  of  black  velvet,  and  if  he  wanted  a  man 
assassinated  had  the  thing  done  at  so  many 
removes  that  it  was  always  entered  "private 
quarrel "  or  "  love  affair "  in  the  reports  of  the 
City  Watch.  He  generally  chose  friars  for  busi- 
ness of  the  sort,  because  they  could  be  about 
at  night  without  suspicion,  and  their  hanging 
sleeves  gave  them  such  a  pull.  For  cup  or  fruit 
work  he  found  ladies  the  only  possible  agents. 
No  one  in  Nona  would  dream  of  taking  wine 
from  a  man ;  and  as  for  presents  of  figs,  Grifone 
was  maturely  of  opinion  that  the  last  and  present 
Pontiffs  had  exhausted  that  pretty  artifice.  Fi- 
nally, you  can  easily  understand  how  useful  Duke 
Amilcare  found  a  demure  lad  of  this  kind  in  the 
matter  of  moulding  his  new  State. 

When  his  master  brought  him  a  mistress  he 
gave  her  great  attention.  Like  all  clever  fellows, 
he  was  at  first  disposed  to  set  down  her  simplicity 
to  her  credit ;  but  after  watching  her  for  some 
time,  he  decided  that  here  was  actually  a  soul 
clear  as  glass  —  thing  of  inestimable  value  in  a 
country  where  lying  was  an  axiom  of  politics  — 
and  his  respect  for  her  quickened  into  something 
more.  If  she  had  been  only  beautiful  she  would 
never  have  attracted  him  as  she  did.  There  were 
plenty  of  women  in  Italy  handsome  enough  for 
his  needs  (the  flower  of  whose  amours  were  mostly 
for  the  mind) ;  but  simpletons  were  rarer.  This 
tall  wistful  girl  told  the  truth  —  but  told  it  in- 
credibly !      Think    of    this.       Shortly   after    the 


THE   DUCHESS  OF  NONA  169 

coronation,  Bentivoglio,  the  chalk-faced  tyrant  of 
Bologna,  came  with  an  army  on  his  way  to 
Fori!.  He  had  an  old  grudge  against  Nona. 
Finding  himself  within  a  league  of  its  walls,  his 
men  lusty  and  well-fed,  his  artillery  in  great  train, 
Nona  (as  he  judged  it)  in  ferment — he  blockaded 
the  place,  and  in  due  time  summoned  it  to  sur- 
render. Amilcare  laughed  at  him,  told  his  wife 
(in  secret)  that  he  would  attack  on  the  morrow, 
and  went  to  the  Council.  While  he  was  there 
came  a  new  summons  from  Bentivoglio,  a  mes- 
senger with  a  white  flag.  Word  was  sent  to  the 
Duke;  the  Duke  could  not  be  found.  "  Oh,"  said 
one,  "  seek  Madonna  for  answer."    This  was  done. 

"  Tell  the  Lord  of  Bologna,"  says  Molly,  "  that 
we  attack  to-morrow." 

The  man  bowed  himself  away.  You  should 
have  seen  Amilcare's  face  when  this  was  reported 
to  him ;  he  rated  his  lovely  Molly  like  a  fish-fag. 
Then  he  had  an  interview  with  Grifone ;  told  him 
the  whole  story. 

Grifone  stared.  "  Ebbene,  Monsignore,"  said 
lie,  "  your  Grace  will  do  well  to  attack." 

"  Attack,  man  ?  when  the  fellow  knows  we  are 
coming !     Are  you  mad  ?  " 

"  Not  so,  my  lord,"  replied  the  Secretary. 
"  Bentivoglio  does  not  know  you  are  coming. 
What  he  knows  is  that  you  have  said  you  are 
coming." 

Well,  at  last  Amilcare  saw  what  Grifone  had 
seen  from  the  first,  the  mad  results  which  might 
be  won  by  a  truth-telling  Duchess.  The  Nonesi 
did  attack.  Bentivoglio,  of  course,  not  expecting 
them,  was  scattered  over    the    maize    fields,  and 


170  LITTLE  NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

never  collected  his  force  again  until  his  own  terri- 
tory was  reached.  That  was  why  he  could  not  help 
the  Lady  of  Forli.  "  Per  Bacco,"  said  Grifone  to 
himself,  "  truth  in  Italy  is  soused  in  the  mud  at 
the  well's  bottom  ;  in  England  it  seems  to  lie  in 
a  pan.  This  pretty  creature  is  as  shallow  as  a 
crystal  cup,  where  you  may  study  Truth,  like  a 
blue  jewel,  in  an  inch  of  water."  He  went  about 
thoughtfully  the  rest  of  that  day.  This  new- 
discovered  quality  of  Molly's  was  a  thing  very 
beautiful  in  his  eyes.  The  conclusion  he  came 
to  was  that  he  was  about  to  fall  in  love  with 
the  lady.  "  And  that,  after  all,"  was  his  com- 
ment, "  might  not  be  a  bad  thing,  if  (as  is  probable) 
it  become  necessary  to  make  her  my  consort." 
Then  he  went  happily  to  sleep. 

Grifone's  proposals  to  himself  were  still  very 
simple.  Shortly,  they  were  to  get  a  throne  for 
his  master  in  order  that  he  might  the  more  eas- 
ily acquire  one  for  himself.  "  My  legs,"  he  said 
frankly,  "  are  too  short  to  get  up  without  a  foot- 
stool." Amilcare  was  to  have  been  the  footstool. 
But  then  Molly  came  into  play.  At  first  she 
seemed  to  make  the  simple  thing  simpler.  Amil- 
care was  a  strong  man,  but  stiff.  Grifone  was 
sure  he  would  bungle  in  his  handling  of  Molly ; 
this  truth-telling  beauty,  this  flawless  jewel  in  a 
cup  would  baffle  him ;  he  would  neither  see  it  the 
fine  nor  the  delicate  tool  it  was.  He  worked  best 
with  a  bludgeon  which,  as  it  did  brute's  work, 
might  be  brutishly  handled.  So  far  well — he 
might  trust  Amilcare  to  wreck  himself.  Unfor- 
tunately, it  seemed  only  too  likely  he  might 
involve    Molly  in  the  mess.     That  danger  was 


THE   DUCHESS  OF   NONA  i7I 

looming ;  already  he  set  her  to  decoy-work  which 
the  girl  herself  (Grifone  could  see)  did  not  relish. 
The  ladies  of  Nona  were  gay  and  free  —  too  free. 
Molly  recoiled  visibly,  more  than  once.  The  men 
were  worse.  Incredible  as  it  seemed  to  Grifone, 
they  actually  ravaged  this  tender  honeysuckle 
spray  to  drench  themselves  with  the  scent.  Molly, 
beautifully  patient,  courteous,  meek  as  she  was, 
cast  a  scared,  paling  face  about  the  assembly 
now  and  again  :  some  of  the  talk,  too,  cut  her  very 
deep.  Grifone  was  already  too  much  interested  in 
her  to  stomach  this.  He  decided  to  make  dis- 
creet love  to  his  Duchess  by  a  way  of  his  own. 
The  Nonesi  (gluttons !)  abused  her  favours ;  he 
would  refuse  them.  He  would  fast  where  Nona 
feasted,  and  be  the  only  unkissed  guest  at  her 
receptions. 


VI 

GRIFONE    ENTERS    THE    MARKET 

The  first  opportunity  he  had  he  took.  The 
Palazzo  Bagnacavallo  was  thrown  open  to  all 
worthy  citizens,  the  rooms  (since  no  one  in  those 
courting  days  was  held  unworthy)  were  crowded. 
Ladies,  soldiers,  churchmen,  humanists  in  bro- 
cade, poets  in  velvet,  a  Cardinal,  a  cross-eyed 
Greek  who  had  forsaken  usury  at  Trebizond  for 
moral  philosophy  at  Nona;  Madonna  Diamante, 
too-receptive  wife  of  the  Count  of  Cornuto ;  Ma- 
donna Smeralda,  her  discreet  friend;  Madonna 
Saphira ;  Madonna  Rubina ;  frizzed  young  nobles 
in  parti-coloured  hose;  humble  abbates,  uncured 
and  incurable ;  a  monk  crowned  with  laurel  for  a 
sonnet;  and  a  Knight  of  the  Holy  Ghost  in  retire- 
ment;— these  were  some  of  the  company  among 
whom  Duchess  Molly  was  paraded  by  her  dis- 
cerning lord,  to  carry  her  smiles  of  welcome  and 
her  pretty  ways.  Grifone,  grave,  attentive,  in 
black,  was  there,  be  sure,  waiting  his  turn.  It 
came,  and  with  it  Molly,  blushing  and  over- 
wrought, new  from  the  very  kindly  salutations  of 
the  Greek.  To  Grifone  she  proffered  a  greeting 
which  was  no  less  kind  because  her  heart  was 
troubled.  Her  well  of  trust  in  mankind  was  not 
yet  dry.  Grifone  took  her  hand  and  bent  over 
it ;  it  was  as  much  as  he  did  to  brush  it  with  his 
lips.     Molly  wondered  at  him. 

172 


THE   DUCHESS  OF  NONA  173 

"You  should  be  Messer  Grifone,  my  lord's 
secretary,"  she  said,  faltering. 

"  Alas !  I  have  that  misfortune,"  replied  the 
youth,  with  averted  eyes. 

"  Why,  I  know  you  very  well,"  said  Molly,  "  but 
see  now  that  I  have  offended  you.  What  is  my 
injury,  Signore ?     What  have  I  done?" 

"  Madonna,"  said  Grifone  (but  so  low  that  no 
other  could  hear  him),  "  believe  me  that  the  of- 
fence is  none  of  your  wilful  making.  It  is,  how- 
ever, irremediable.  Nothing  but  misfortune  could 
overcome  such  misfortune  as  mine ;  and  that  I 
pray  Heaven  to  keep  far  from  you." 

"  Alack !  good  Grifone,  what  sayings  are  these 
for  a  day  that  should  be  happy  ? "  urged  the 
warm-hearted  girl,  with  eyes  ready  to  fill. 

"  Madonna,  let  me  endure  the  thought  of  them 
alone,  I  entreat  your  Grace." 

"  Never,  while  I  live,  Grifone.  You  make  me 
most  unhappy.     Will  you  not  kiss  me  ? ' 

"  Never,  while  I  live,  Madonna,  if  I  am  to  live 
honest." 

Molly  went  white  and  red,  and  stood  hesi- 
tating, uncertain  whether  to  cry  or  be  angry. 
Either  might  have  been  a  vent  for  her  distress, 
which  was  real.  Commanding  herself  with 
pains  — 

"  I  will  require  you  to  speak  with  me  after  sup- 
per," she  said,  after  a  pause  for  the  struggle. 

Grifone  bowed  his  head  and  backed  away  from 
her.  She,  being  boundless  in  capacity  for  the 
affections  of  her  kind,  spent  the  interval  with 
an  aching  heart. 

Directly  supper  was  done  she  hunted  for  the 


174  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

Secretary.  The  affair  had  by  now  throbbed  it- 
self into  a  question  of  her  physical  ease.  Her 
heartstrings  were  at  a  dangerous  stretch,  she 
quivering  at  the  point  of  tears.  Master  Grifone, 
for  his  part,  had  taken  very  good  care  that  the 
Duke  of  Nona  should  be  occupied,  and  himself 
not  hard  to  find.  Molly  came  upon  him  in  a 
gallery  of  arras;  caught  him  crouching  there 
with  his  face  hidden  in  his  hands.  She  went 
to  him  at  once,  full  of  the  trouble  he  showed 
her,  sat  by  him,  put  her  arm  round  his  neck, 
and  tried  to  draw  his  head  up.  Grifone  turned 
her  a  white,  miserable  face. 

"  Ah  ! "  he  said,  husky  with  reproach,  "  ah !  you 
have  come  with  the  ardours  of  an  angel  leaping 
in  you ;  yet  no  cruelty  could  in  truth  be  sharper." 

"  Cruel  ?  Cruel  ?  Oh,  Grifone,  nobody  has  ever 
said  this  of  me  before ! "  whimpered  poor  Molly. 
She  was  swirling  in  wilder  water  than  she  knew. 

"  The  cruelty  is  unconscious,  yet  none  the  less 
bitter  for  that,"  he  complained ;  and  then,  all  at 
once,  he  turned  fiercely  to  rend  her.  "  What ! 
When  I  throb  for  your  footfall,  or  when  I  lean 
swooning  to  the  wall  for  the  scent  of  your  hair 
as  you  pass ;  when  I  urge  against  your  chamber 
door  that  I  may  feed  upon  the  sound  of  your 
breath,  or  hunt  for  broken  bread  under  your  table 
that  I  may  grow  drunk  on  what  your  fingers  have 
touched !  When  I  go  raving  at  night,  weeping 
by  day,  with  a  knife  in  my  heart,  tears  that  scald 
my  eyes !  When  with  these  pains  to  endure, 
these  perils  to  skirt,  heights  to  fly,  you  will  speak, 
touch  me,  breathe  upon  me,  tempt  me  to  greet 
you  with  kissing   of   the   lips  —  ah,  heaven  and 


THE   DUCHESS  OF  NONA  175 

hell !  it  is  over-much.  I  would  be  an  honest  man, 
look  you.  I  have  a  master  to  serve,  I  bid  you 
remember.  It  is  true  enough  that  I  love  you  out 
of  all  measure ;  there  is  no  sin  in  that  which  I 
cannot  help ;  but  misery  there  is,  by  our  Saviour. 
The  sin  is  gaping  all  about  me,  itching  here, 
aching  there,  gnawing  and  groping  without  cease, 
or  stint,  or  allay.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  this  is  true  — 
God  help  me !  I  love  you  deplorably ;  but  I  will 
not  touch  you.  You  are  the  ever-blessed  thing 
to  me ;  but  I  will  make  you  the  ever-abhorred 
thing,  anathema  maranatha.  I  love  you,  I  wor- 
ship you,  I  adore  you ;  you  are  my  saint,  my 
church,  my  altar,  my  soul's  peculiar  food ;  you 
shall  be  my  devil,  his  hell,  his  cauldron,  my  veno- 
mous offence.  And  all  this  you  shall  be  that  I 
may  love  you  yet  more,  yet  incomprehensibly  more, 
and  (withal)  live  honest.  I  will  hate  you  because 
I  adore  you.  Ah !  and  I  will  prove  whether  by 
hating  you  most  of  all  I  cannot  drown  myself  in 
love."  He  threw  himself  out  of  her  reach,  and 
rocked  with  hidden  face. 

Here  was  pretty  hearing  for  a  pretty  bride. 
Molly,  with  heaving  bosom,  stood  abashed  and 
dumb,  and  troubled  profoundly.  Not  only  had 
she  never  tried  to  stem  so  fierce  a  torrent  of  love, 
nor  ever  shuddered  under  such  dry  heat  in  men's 
words — she  had  never  yet  dreamed  of  so  much 
passion  in  men  created.  And  glorious  passion, 
too,  it  seemed,  so  stern  and  repressed  —  a  passion 
which  hugged  a  fetter,  a  splendid  misery  of  denial. 
Of  course  she  had  nothing  to  say  ;  she  never  had 
anything  to  say ;  yet  she  longed  to  say  or  do  some- 
thing.    Her  interest  in  all  these  fine  things  was 


176  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

painful,  if  delicious ;  and  it  never  occurred  to  her 
for  a  moment  that  it  could  be  a  sin  to  listen  where 
it  was  evidently  such  a  virtue  to  declare.  She 
was  conscious  of  no  disloyalty  to  Amilcare  in  so 
listening,  in  being  so  troubled,  in  displaying  her 
trouble  so  unaffectedly.  Poor,  poor,  good  Grifone! 
So  very  noble,  so  white  and  miserable ;  Heaven 
knows  she  would  have  satisfied  him  if  she  could. 
With  her,  to  feel  was  to  touch  (if  I  may  so  put  it) ; 
quite  instinctively  she  stretched  out  her  arms  to 
draw  him  home ;  the  good  fool  would  have  kissed 
his  tears  away  if  he  had  had  any,  giving  him  for 
comfort  what  he  had  screamed  upon  as  a  torment. 
But  that  was  a  talent  denied  to  Grifone :  he  could 
not  cry.  All  the  same,  she  was  at  the  point  to 
kiss  him,  when  he  once  more  prevented  her — this 
time  without  violence. 

"  Ah,  my  lady,  my  lady,"  he  said,  with  a  smile 
whimsically  sad,  "  have  a  little  pity  on  a  torturing 
wretch ! " 

Molly  now  covered  her  face  and  freely  sobbed. 
The  scene  was  heartrending,  and  Grifone  judged 
that  he  might  give  the  finishing  stroke.  He  stood 
over  her  where  she  was  flung  (the  poor  humble 
soul),  and  laid  his  fingers  lightly  on  her  silken 
shoulder. 

"  Love  makes  a  good  reader  of  a  man,"  he  said 
slowly,  drawling  his  words.  "  Long  ago  I  dis- 
cerned the  clear  stream  of  truth  which  is  the 
issue  of  your  love.  Henceforward  there  is  a  se- 
cret pact  between  us  two,  a  secret  wholly  honour- 
able, since  I  have  only  told  it  that  you  might  be 
won  over  not  to  dare  me  too  far.  Being  honour- 
able, you  (who  are  the  fountain  of  honour)  will 


THE   DUCHESS  OF  NONA  177 

keep  it.  We  go  our  two  ways,  we  look  not  on 
each  other,  we  greet  not,  neither  speak  what 
either  knows.  Chance  will  throw  us  much  to- 
gether ;  yet  this  law  we  will  punctually  observe. 
To  me  the  hour  will  say  — '  Guard  thee,  Grifone ; 
thy  sweet  enemy  draws  near.'  To  you  — '  Now, 
goodness  be  thy  guide,  Molly,  lest  thou  art  a  cause 
of  stumbling  to  thy  brother.'  So  let  it  always 
be." 

He  left  her  then,  knowing  very  well  that  he  had 
sworn  the  good  girl  to  faith  inviolable,  and  given 
her  the  subject  of  perennial  thought. 

And  so  he  had.  Molly  kept  his  secret,  hon- 
oured it,  honoured  him.  She  came  by  tortuous 
ways  of  her  hoodblind  heart  to  glory  and  exult  in 
both ;  nor  had  she  the  wit  to  discern  how  or  by 
what  stealthy  degrees  the  pain  and  longing  she 
pitied  in  him  grew  to  be  more  pitiable  in  herselfo 
She  watched  him  wonderfully  in  those  crowded 
days  of  court  life  which  followed,  and  when  she 
was  blinded  by  her  tears,  held  him  as  a  martyr 
who,  for  her  sake,  lay  quivering  under  the  knife. 
It  shows  the  length  of  her  road,  that  she  was  never 
aware  how  much  more  in  her  sight  he  was  than 
Amilcare,  the  man  of  her  election.  Amilcare,  it 
is  true,  was  greatly  occupied:  one  cannot  be  a 
duke  for  nothing.  Not  home  affairs  only  (though 
discontent  was  never  far  off)  called  him  from 
home :  the  times  were  full  of  the  shock  of  alarms ; 
thrones  toppled ;  there  were  rumours  of  moving 
hosts  beyond  the  Alps.  Cesare,  the  flame-col- 
oured Borgia,  was  still  meditating  his  kingdom  in 
Romagna;  already  the  Lady  of  Fori!  was  flog- 
ging her  sulky  lieges  into  some  sort  of  action  for 

N 


178  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

her  defence.  Now,  Nona  lay  dead  in  the  Borgia's 
way,  and  unless  the  Borgia  could  be  hoodwinked 
again  as  he  had  been  hoodwinked  before,  Nona 
need  not  cease  to  be  a  Duchy,  but  Amilcare 
would  cease  to  be  a  Duke.  No  wonder  the  man 
was  a  lacklove  just  now.  He  intended  to  play 
Molly  for  his  great  stake  ;  meantime  he  must  be 
more  of  a  duke  than  he  was,  recognised  as  such 
by  other  powers,  by  dukes  firmly  rooted,  by 
grudging  republics,  or  tyrants  in  thin  veils. 

And  while  he  was  consolidating  his  throne  — 
ruffling  here,  fawning  there —  Grifone  was  always 
before  Molly's  eye ;  always  plucking  at  her  poor 
heartstrings ;  always  holding  up  his  grave  pa- 
tience, his  bleeding,  his  most  eloquent  refusals,  for 
her  wonder.  Wonder,  indeed,  she  did,  and  much 
more  than  that.  The  thought  sat  upon  her  like 
a  brooding  evil  spirit,  frayed  her  nerves  to  waste. 
He  used  to  move  her  so  much  by  this  policy 
of  negation  that  she  found  herself  panting  as  she 
sat  among  her  women ;  or  when  from  her  throned 
seat  at  table  she  saw  his  pale  profile  burn  like 
a  silver  coin  in  the  dusk,  the  pain  of  her  heart's 
beating  well-nigh  made  her  suffocate.  Her 
troubles  came  to  be  day-long;  he  haunted  her 
by  night.  When  she  began  to  ask  the  Virgin 
Mary  how  long  she  could  endure,  it  was  the  sig- 
nal to  herself  that  she  could  endure  no  more. 
She  sent  for  him  then,  and  implored  him 
brokenly  —  sobbing,  kneeling  before  him — that 
he  would  leave  her.     Grifone    bowed    his   head. 

Next  day  Amilcare  (or  some  other)  told  her  that 
the  Secretary  was  to  be  absent  for  some  months 
arranging    alliances    abroad.     He    went   without 


THE   DUCHESS  OF   NONA  179 

seeing  her  or  bidding  any  farewells.  She  was 
prostrate  for  three  or  four  days,  could  hardly 
drag  herself  to  church,  or  away  from  it  when 
she  had  once  gained  its  cool  sanctuary  aisles. 
After  that  she  got  better  and  more  her  old  self. 
The  relief  was  as  delicious  as  the  grief  had  been ; 
she  was  really  happy.  Then  she  found  that  she 
was  beginning  to  dread  his  return.  This  was 
exactly  what  he  had  desired:  he  was  a  most 
astute  young  man. 


VII 


a  pedlar's  round 


Grifone's  tour  of  negotiation  lasted  very  nearly 
six  months  —  months  of  comparative  ease  for 
Molly,  neglected  by  husband  and  shadowing 
lover  alike.  During  this  time  the  latter  visited 
every  important  court  in  Italy,  except  Naples, 
whither  he  cared  not,  and  Parma,  whither  he 
dared  not  venture  —  the  object  of  his  journey 
being,  of  course,  to  secure  his  master's  acknow- 
ledgment by  a  better  title  than  the  throats  of  a 
marketed  crowd.  It  would  be  as  interesting  as 
it  was  surprising  to  see  the  little  craftsman  at 
work,  the  ingenuity  with  which  he  plied  his  hand- 
ful of  tools,  the  proud  patience  with  which  he 
endured  snub  after  snub,  his  bland  passivity  and 
extraordinary  rebound.  First  of  all,  he  went  to 
Rome,  ever  the  pivot  of  danger  to  an  Italian 
diplomat.  Molly's  portrait,  done  in  his  best  man- 
ner by  Dosso  of  Ferrara,  was  presented  to  Duke 
Caesar  of  Valentinois. 

In  this,  the  lady  with  loose  hair  and  a  still  looser 
robe  (spangled  with  stars  it  was,  and  slipped  off 
one  white  shoulder)  was  sitting  in  a  green  wilder- 
ness feeding  lions  with  confetti.  On  a  cedar  near 
by,  were  several  parrots  and  a  pale  owl,  and 
from  a  low-swinging  branch  a  great  speckled 
snake    stooped    downward    to    embrace    Molly's 

180 


THE   DUCHESS  OF   NONA  181 

waist  in  a  dry  fold,  and  with  his  head  writhed 
forward  to  lick  her  chin.  It  was  a  pleasing 
piece ;  Don  Cesare  was  ravished.  The  seed 
planted  in  him  at  Foligno  germinated,  produced 
a  bud,  before  long  a  triumphant  flower.  Not  only 
would  he  come  to  Nona,  and  that  soon,  but  the 
Holy  Father  sent  the  Golden  Rose  to  "  his  dear- 
est daughter  in  Jesus  Christ,  Maria,  by  the  same 
grace  Duchess  of  Nona."  O  mouth  of  singular 
favour ! 

With  the  scent  of  this  rare  blossom,  Grifone 
went  off  to  tickle  the  nostrils  of  the  North.  But 
he  must  not  delay  us.  Bologna  he  dared  to  visit  : 
thither  the  ducal  pair  must  needs  go  anon. 
Milan  received  him  to  some  purpose ;  Venice 
received  him  to  none  at  all.  Barbarigo  was  not 
Doge  for  nothing.  Ferrara  was  busy  with 
thoughts  of  piety,  the  whole  court  barefoot, 
howling  "  Fac  me  plagis "  between  the  garden 
walls.  In  other  places  he  cried  his  wares,  and 
reached  Nona  again  in  the  heats  of  July. 

He  found  his  lovely  mistress  in  a  shaking 
fever,  languid  under  the  breathless  heat  of  the 
plain,  yet  never  at  rest.  He  found  her  large- 
eyed  and  bodeful,  horribly  nervous  of  him.  She 
had  been  longing  to  see  him,  yet  every  day  made 
vehement  prayer  that  she  might  never  look  on 
him  again.  When  she  knew  that  he  was  indeed 
in  the  palace,  she  shut  herself  into  her  chamber 
with  a  crucifix,  and  spent  the  whole  day  at  the 
window  peeping  from  behind  a  curtain.  Grifone 
saw  the  shape  of  her  in  it,  saw  her  hand  at  the 
selvage. 

"  Courage,    Grifone,    mio    caro,"    he    assured 


1 82  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

himself;  "she  is  afraid  of  thee."  He  resumed 
his  state  of  armed  respect,  Molly  her  tossing 
nights  and  pacing  days.  Affairs  were  some- 
thing awry  within  the  Duchy,  yet  Grifone  as- 
sured his  Lord  they  were  likely  to  be  much  more 
awry  out  of  it.  Madonna  Duchessa  must  cer- 
tainly be  shown  about  —  otherwise,  an  avalanche. 
Preparations  were  pushed  on.  By  October  the 
Duke  and  Duchess,  with  a  great  train  set  out  — 
actually  for  Bologna,  but  nominally  for  Milanese 
territory.  Lodovico,  of  that  great  principality, 
would  have  been  mortally  affronfed  if  he  believed 
Bentivoglio  to  have  been  considered  first.  There- 
fore the  visit  to  Bologna  was  to  be  a  dead  secret, 
performed  by  the  principals  almost  unattended. 
Meantime  Grifone  (who  loved  mystification)  pre- 
pared litters  with  a  dummy  Duke  and  Duchess 
to  go  under  escort  to  Borgo  San  Donnino.  He 
and  his  wagging  escort  duly  entered  that  city: 
excuses  to  the  Podesta  secured  him  a  covered 
passage  to  the  palace.  Once  there,  unfortu- 
nately, the  populace  clamoured  for  a  view, 
insisted  upon  their  Graces'  appearance.  Grifone 
had  to  set  his  dolls  at  a  window.  There  they 
stared,  embraced,  while  three  Ciceronian  ora- 
tions were  delivered  from  the  piazza,  and  all 
the  merchant-guilds  marched  round  it  with  ban- 
ners and  torches.  Next  morning  he  got  them  off 
safely  by  some  stroke  of  good  luck ;  but  his  joke 
got  wind  in  time,  came  round  to  Cesare  Borgia's 
ears,  and  at  last  was  repeated  against  Nona.  For 
no  other  reason  could  this  absurd  incident  claim 
your  ears. 

At  Bologna,  also,  all  had  gone  well  with  the 


THE   DUCHESS  OF   NONA  183 

real  adventurers — up  to  a  certain  point.  Benti- 
voglio  the  tyrant  (whose  name  is  surely  the 
grimmest  of  his  pleasantries)  having  seen  the 
lovely  Molly,  was  disposed  to  forgive  her  that 
disastrous  veracity  which  (you  remember)  had 
prevented  him  before.  He  was  so  favourably 
impressed  that  Amilcare  (who  never  missed  a 
chance)  left  him  alone  with  her  for  two  hours  in 
the  garden  after  supper.  At  the  end  of  that 
time  Molly  came  to  him,  stumbling  over  her 
dress  in  her  haste,  flushed  and  in  tears.  They 
must  leave  Bologna  at  once,  she  declared ;  she 
would  die  else,  or  never  look  her  husband  in  the 
face.  The  man  had  insulted  her,  was  horrible, 
most  wicked.  Amilcare,  her  dear  lord,  must  go 
and  avenge  her,  etc.,  etc. 

Here  was  a  pother.  What  could  be  done? 
Grifone,  of  course,  had  he  been  there,  would  have 
drawn  his  master's  sword  for  him,  dragged  him 
out  of  the  room,  and  sent  him  back  in  half  an 
hour's  time  with  a  bloody  testimony  of  nothing 
on  the  blade.  Molly  would  have  been  pacified, 
Bentivoglio  snug  abed,  the  sword  none  the  worse 
for  a  little  pig's  blood.  But  Grifone  was  at  Borgo 
jigging  his  dolls  and  listening  to  Cicero,  and 
Amilcare  lost  his  head.  He  pooh-poohed  the 
whole  affair;  Molly  grew  pale,  stopped  crying. 
Amilcare  began  to  feel  himself  —  come,  come, 
she  was  reasonable  after  all.  He  condescended 
to  explain  the  fine  uses  of  Italian  statecraft,  the 
wife's  part,  the  husband's  part.  He  was  most  ex- 
plicit ;  Molly  grew  white,  ended  by  fainting. 
Amilcare  carried  her  to  bed  ;  she  refused  to  sleep 
with  him.     He  raged ;    she  cared  nothing.     She 


1 84  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

was  wild  with  terror,  shame,  discovery  of  her 
lover's  worth,  and  of  her  love's.  He  had  to  beg 
her  pardon  on  his  knees,  made  an  enemy  of  Ben- 
tivoglio,  a  fool  of  himself,  and  left  next  morning 
in  a  tearing  passion. 

Grifone,  who  met  his  master  at  Cremona, 
lost  no  time  in  seeing  that  something  had 
gone  counter,  and  very  little  in  finding  out 
what  it  was. 

"  Leave  it  to  me,  my  good  lord,"  he  said  com- 
fortably;  "  I  will  explain  it  to  Madonna  in  another 
way." 

Before  they  went  to  bed  he  had  a  little  guarded 
talk  with  his  duchess,  half-excusation  of  his  ab- 
sence which  might  have  aggravated  her  alarms, 
half -condemnation  of  Amilcare;  the  whole,  con- 
sequently, a  veiled  eulogy  of  himself. 

Molly  was  very  quiet  at  first,  subdued  and 
miserable,  but  sincerely  grateful.  To  express 
this,  she  fell  into  her  natural  way,  a  way  of  little 
timid  tendernesses,  little  touchings  of  the  arm, 
urgings  of  the  cheek.  Grifone  received  them 
rigidly;  she  was  reduced  to  tears.  Thereupon 
he  kissed  her  ardently,  twice,  and  fled.  She  re- 
mained a  long  while  in  the  dark,  breathless, 
limp,  awed,  and  absurdly  happy.  Next  morning 
he  was  as  distant  as  the  Alps  and  quite  as  frosty. 
At  dusk  they  reached  Milan. 

Whatever  Duke  Ludovic  (titular  of  Bari, 
actual  of  Milan)  may  have  intended  to  ensue, 
he  gave  them  a  proper  reception.  Cardinal 
Ascanio  himself  came  to  the  city  gate  with 
clergy  and  the  Council ;  cavalry,  a  parti-coloured 
array,  pennoned  and  feathered,  escorted  them  to 


THE  DUCHESS   OF   NONA  185 

the  castle.  There,  on  the  steps  within  the  great 
courtyard,  the  Moor  himself,  sumptuous  in  sil- 
ver brocade,  and  Donna  Beatrice  his  wife ;  there 
his  tired  sister,  Duchess  Bona,  and  her  by  no 
means  tired  daughter,  Bianca  Maria  of  the 
green  eyes,  stood  panoplied  to  await  them. 
Trumpets  announced  the  greetings  that  passed ; 
yet  another  fanfare  the  greetings  that  were  to 
come  when  within  the  hall,  at  the  foot  of  the 
broad  staircase,  they  found  and  kissed  the  hands 
of  the  anxious  little  Duke  Gian  Galeazzo  and 
his  pretty  wife  —  pair  of  doomed  children,  even 
then  in  the  cold  shadow  of  their  fate. 

Half-hearted,  fainting  Molly  went  through  her 
little  part  with  the  accustomed  success.  Her 
pretty  English-Italian,  her  English  lips,  again  her 
eager  hands,  so  anxious  to  search  friends  out, 
found  their  sure  way  to  one  at  least.  Bianca 
Maria,  affianced  of  the  Roman  King,  delighted  to 
kiss  and  be  kissed,  announced  herself  the  shy 
girl's  lover.  Pleasure  broke  over  her  face,  broke 
the  glaze  of  her  bottomless  eyes  with  a  gleam 
like  the  sun's,  when  in  still  water  it  betrays  deep 
green  paths  of  light. 

She  was  an  enigmatic  rogue,  so  clever  that 
to  most  she  seemed  of  unplumbed  stupidity. 
Those  blank  green  eyes  of  hers,  that  waxen  face, 
that  scarlet  impenetrable  mouth,  her  even  gait 
and  look  of  ruminating,  look  of  a  dolt  —  who 
knew  Bianca  Maria?  Not  Maximilian, the  mild- 
mannered  King ;  not  Duke  Ludovic  (that  creased 
traitor),who  schemed  her  marriage ;  not  altogether 
Lionardo,  who  painted  half  her  portrait  and 
taught  her  much  of   his  wisdom;  certainly  not 


186  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

poor  Molly  of  Nona.  All  Milanese  were  her 
lovers,  and  here  was  another  heart,  Molly's  to 
wit,  laid  open  and  soothed  by  the  little  witch's 
quick  hand-stroke.  Bianca  Maria  had  all  her 
secrets  with  all  her  love  in  the  first  hour  of  their 
embracery. 

The  two  girls  sat  clasped  in  one  chair  in  that 
pretty  time  of  dressing  when  half  is  undone  and 
half's  to  do.  Molly,  feeling  a  fool  but  loving  to 
have  it  so,  sat  in  the  lap  of  the  younger,  who 
mothered  her. 

After  many  days,  Lionardo,  who  forgot  nothing 
and  never  her  whom  he  thus  happened  on,  glori- 
fied her  as  the  Virgin  Mary  on  the  knees  of 
Saint  Anne.  The  indefinite  smile,  the  innocent 
consciousness,  the  tender  maiden  ways !  Wife, 
mother,  handmaid  of  High  God,  he  thought  of  her 
as  of  Molly  in  apotheosis ;  dutiful  for  love's  sake, 
yet  incurably  a  child,  made  for  the  petting  place. 

"  Grifone  the  Secretary  is  your  lover,  my 
Molly,"  said  Bianca  Maria  the  wise. 

Molly  admitted  the  sobering  truth,  and  the  other 
pinched  her  lip. 

"  Take  care  of  him,  my  dear.  He  is  more 
perilous  than  that  stiff  husband  you  now  have. 
The  husband  is  a  trading  fool.  He  uses  you 
as  a  carrot  to  induce  donkeys.  The  other  is 
more  curious,  and  has  no  use  for  donkeys.  He 
will  use  you  otherwise." 

"  Why,  how  will  he  use  me,  then  ?  "  said  open- 
eyed  Molly.  She  was  vaguely  ill  at  ease;  but 
the  other  shammed  stupid.  All  she  could  be 
brought  to  add  was  — 

"  I  will  take  care  of  you  if  I  can.      You  will 


THE   DUCHESS  OF  NONA  187 

never  do  here,  nor  should  ever  have  come  —  a 
lamb  among  our  Lombard  wolves.  Had  you  no 
English  lover,  to  kill  Amilcare  and  prevent  it  ? " 

Molly  thought  of  Gregory  Drax  who  had  been 
upon  the  North  seas  at  the  time.  Gregory  Drax 
used  to  lean  over  the  garden  gate  chewing  straws. 
This  he  did  by  the  hour  together,  to  the  perfect 
satisfaction  of  himself  and  understanding  of  the 
neighbours.  Molly  could  not  think  that  it  would 
have  led  to  the  slaying  of  Amilcare. 

"  What  was  he  like,  this  Gregorio  ?  "  asked 
Bianca  Maria,  suddenly  alert  when  she  had  got 
his  name  smoothly. 

Molly  did  her  best — ruddy,  blue-eyed,  always 
blushing  and  laughing,  fair-haired,  very  long  arms. 
He  was  a  marinajo. 

"  He  sounds  to  be  so,"  said  Bianca  Maria. 
Then  she  clapped  her  hands  and  summoned 
Lionardo. 

The  great  man  had  no  sooner  appeared  (noise- 
lessly in  the  doorway,  the  inscrutable  grey-beard) 
than  she  kissed  her  friend  and  bade  her  go  with 
her  women  to  the  appointed  quarters  of  the 
Nonesi.  Lionardo  gravely  saluted  her  as  she 
went  rosy  out.  He  had  seen  the  Virgin  in  the 
lap  of  Saint  Anne  and  cared  no  more  for  the  poor 
original. 

"  Dear  Lionardo,"  said  the  girl  in  the  chair  to 
the  most  learned  man  of  her  day,  "  you  shall  do 
me  the  favour  to  write  a  letter  in  Latin  to  a  certain 
English  lord,  Messer  Gregorio  Dras,  Marinajo, 
Londra." 

"  Principessa,"  said  the  great  man,  "  I  am  ready. 
Recite  your  letter." 


1 88  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

"  To  her  very  singular  good  lord,"  the  letter 
began  —  the  only  one,  so  far  as  I  know,  written 
by  the  Empress  Bianca  Maria  to  England;  cer- 
tainly the  only  one  she  ever  wrote  to  Wapping. 
The  conceit  of  it  was  as  follows :  That  the  lovely 
Lady  Molly  was  at  Nona  on  the  confines  of  Emilia 
and  Romagna,  wife  of  a  man  who  would  shortly 
be  murdered  in  order  that  she  might  become  the 
mate  of  the  assassin ;  that  a  very  great  lord,  son 
of  the  Holy  Father,  was  intending  for  those  parts, 
and  would  probably  take  the  same  means  to  secure 
himself  the  position  of  her  third  husband.  The 
writer  proposed  that  the  Lord  Gregorius,  whose 
virtue  and  celerity  of  judgment  were  well  known 
throughout  Italy,  should  journey  out  to  Nona  with 
all  reasonable  despatch  and  repossess  himself  of  the 
lady.  "  Thus  your  lordship,"  it  concluded,  "  may 
happily  become  fourth  husband  of  a  lady,  whose 
charms  are  of  a  sort  so  noble  and  perdurable  that 
they  are  unlikely  to  suffer  from  the  arduous  duties 
their  excellence  involves.  Yet  such  haste  as  is 
compatible  with  your  worshipful  degree  in  the 
realm  of  England  may  be  recommended.  From 
Milan,  etc.,  in  the  year  of  our  thankful  Redemption 
1494." 

"  How  shall  we  send  our  letter  speediest,  my 
Merlin  ? "  His  enchantress  laid  her  emerald 
spell  over  him  —  O  incomparable  witch  !  Such 
sorcery  exalted  him  always.  He  lifted  her  ques- 
tion upon  one  of  his  towering  flights. 

"  The  wings  of  birds,  if  we  could  use  them, 
were  admirable  for  the  purpose,  Princess,"  he  re- 
plied. "  But,  for  the  moment,  the  difficulty  of 
instructing  such  messengers  is  insuperable.     And 


THE   DUCHESS  OF  NONA  189 

not  only  so,  but  it  is  probable  that  the  Lord  Gre- 
gorio,  seeing  such  an  envoy  to  his  hand,  might  put 
a  bolt  into  it,  and  itself  into  the  pot,  without  inter- 
rogatories delivered  or  answers  made.  So  messen- 
ger and  message  would  alike  be  boiled.  Another 
way  occurs  to  me,  which  arises  out  of  this  con- 
sideration. We  stand,  each  bather  of  us,  in  a 
lake  of  air.  A  lake?  Rather,  an  illimitable 
ocean  of  it  spread  over  land  and  sea,  in  which 
the  very  mountain-tops  do  blink.  Should  not, 
then,  the  pulsing  of  our  thought,  as  it  rings  out- 
ward from  us,  be  discernible  in  the  ripples  about 
the  Lord  Gregorio's  ears  ?  Obviously  it  should. 
But  the  reading  of  such  ripples  would  be  a  nice 
matter;  and  again  we  lack  means,  and  again  the 
time,  to  instruct  his  lordship.     Once  more  —  " 

"  Ah,  you  dream  your  subtleties,  and  my  letter 
gets  cold,"  said  Bianca  Maria,  pouting.  "  You  are 
now  just  as  you  sit  watchfully,  when  you  should 
be  painting  my  picture." 

"  It  is  then  that  I  am  painting  my  hardest,  Prin- 
cess Saint  Anne,"  he  returned.  "  But  leave  with 
me  your  letter.  It  shall  go  in  a  man's  bosom  to- 
morrow morning." 

High  affairs  of  State  are  not  settled  in  a  week, 
nor  dukes  so  apt  at  billing  as  a  pair  of  girls. 
Duke  Ludovic  would  not  declare  himself  to  every 
adventurer;  Duke  Amilcare  was  too  patently 
adventurous  to  disclose  all  his  hand.  Then  came 
Grifone,  with  a  game  of  his  own.  Blind  each  of 
one  eye,  they  set  to  dealing  their  cards  for  beggar- 
my-neighbour. 

Now,  Ludovic  feared  one  man  in  all  Italy,  and 
so  did  Amilcare.     That  was  the  one  man  in  all 


190  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

Italy  whom  Grifone  respected,  on  whom  he 
thought  he  could  honestly  rely.  Thought  he 
to  himself,  "  Can  their  Serenities  be  leagued 
against  this  man  in  my  service  ?  Can  they  not, 
by  our  risen  Lord  ?  "    He  fancied  that  they  might. 

To  this  end  he  proposed  to  his  master,  very 
shortly,  the  assassination  of  Borgia  by  means  of 
the  lovely  Molly.  Let  her,  at  a  private  banquet, 
inveigle  him  to  drink  a  cup. 

"  Suggest  this  to  the  Duke  of  Bari,"  he  said. 
"  I  think  your  lordship  will  not  be  disappointed. 
Substantial  pledges  must  be  exacted,  of  course; 
he  must  tread  in  deep  enough  to  leave  a  footmark 
or  two  visible  'twixt  Milan  and  Nona." 

Amilcare  thought  well  of  this  advice  and  fol- 
lowed it.  Ludovic,  incredulous  at  first  and  breath- 
less, took  a  fortnight  to  ponder.  He  consulted 
Cardinal  Ascanio,  consulted  his  astrologers,  took 
the  test  of  the  opening  Virgil.  His  eye  lighted 
upon  the  portentous  words:  "Tantae  molis  erat 
Romanam  condere  gentem."  Who  would  have 
twittered  after  those  ?  He  sought  his  guest  and 
told  him  roundly  that  if  the  thing  went  well  he 
would  send  an  envoy  to  the  court  at  Nona,  and 
support  the  new  Duchy  with  moral  force. 

Amilcare  did  not  believe  him,  naturally,  nor  did 
he  greatly  care  for  moral  forces.  He  stipulated 
for  an  envoy  at  once,  an  invitation  for  himself  and 
his  wife  to  Bianca  Maria's  wedding,  and  for  a  loan 
of  twenty  thousand  ducats  in  specie. 

Ludovic  boggled  horribly  at  this ;  but  they  ac- 
corded at  last.  The  envoy  was  to  go  then  and 
there,  the  invitation  should  be  sent  when  the 
Borgia  had  agreed  to  visit  Nona,  and  the  money 


THE   DUCHESS  OF   NONA  191 

when  he  was  within  a  day's  ride  of  that  city. 
Reduced  to  cipher-writing,  this  treaty  was  placed 
below  the  visible  Host  on  the  high  altar  of  Sant' 
Eustorgio ;  the  allies  received  the  Communion, 
and  after  another  week's  festivities  the  Duke  and 
Duchess  of  Nona  went  home. 

At  parting  the  two  girls  clung  together. 

"  We  shall  never  meet  again,  child,"  cried  the 
chosen  Empress.     "  I  am  sure  of  it." 

Molly  kissed  her.  "  Are  we  not  to  come  to 
your  marriage,  dear  Bianca  ?  " 

"  My  marriage  ?  "  cried  the  other.  "  You  will 
as  likely  see  me  there  as  that  shadow  of  a  name 
which  will  be  my  bridegroom.  You  will  see  my 
simulacrum,  a  plastered  effigy  of  me.  I  shall  be 
stiff  with  gold-dust  and  diamonds ;  a  doll  mar- 
rying a  doll's  bed-gown.  Why  should  I  be  there 
if  his  ever-august  Majesty  is  represented  by  a  puff 
of  silly  breath?  Pray  never  look  for  Bianca  Maria 
in  the  Queen  of  the  Romans.  The  Queen  of  the 
Romans  is  a  doll,  windy  ruler  of  the  name  of  a 
people ;  Bianca  Maria  Sforza,  daughter  of  thieves, 
has  been  your  friend,  as  you  will  see.  She  has 
provided  for  your  third  husband  an  honest  man. 
Now  kiss  me  for  the  last  time  and,  by  Heaven,  go 
quickly,  or  I  shall  keep  you  here  for  my  soul's 
health." 

The  fierce  little  hungry  creature  threw  her 
arms  round  Molly's  neck  and  kissed  her  like  a 
lover. 

Molly  was  melted  into  tears.  "  Oh,  Bianca,  you 
bewilder,  you  terrify  me !  What  is  this  of  hus- 
bands and  your  soul?" 

"  Ah,  my  soul !  "  cried  she.     "  Do  you  think  so 


1 92  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

highly  of  it  as  to  suppose  it  will  survive  this  mar- 
riage, or  so  lightly  as  not  to  care  ?  My  soul,  poor 
child,  is  in  the  case  with  your  lovely  body.  It  is 
the  tied  bird  of  all  these  fowlers." 

"  Alas,  alas  !  But  I  cannot  understand,"  Molly 
wailed ;  but  the  other  caught  her  the  closer. 

"  That  you  do  not  understand,  Carina,  is  your 
salvation.  It  proves  you  immortal.  Now  go. 
No  !  kiss  me,  kiss  me !  " 

They  were  parted  at  last ;  and  though  they  did 
meet  again,  they  kissed  no  more. 


VIII 

PRIVATE    TREATY 

To  a  most  elaborately  penned  invitation  the 
Borgia  responded  by  half  a  dozen  words  scrawled 
by  his  secretary.  He  would  be  in  the  March  at 
such  and  such  a  time,  and  would  spend  such  and 
such  a  day  in  Nona. 

He  had  heard  from  Amilcare;  he  replied  to 
Molly.     The  insult  was  glaring,  even  to  her. 

"Is  this  tolerable,  my  lord?"  said  the  meek 
beauty,  incensed  at  last. 

Amilcare  shrugged.  "  It  may  not  have  to  be 
borne  very  long,"  said  he.  "  For  my  part  I  am 
accustomed  to  reckon  a  gift  by  its  use  to  me,  not 
by  the  sacking  round  about  it."  He  was  now 
beyond  his  wife's  depth  :  she  neither  followed  nor 
tried  to  follow  him. 

In  these  days  she  saw  but  little  of  her  lord,  and 
could  have  wished  it  less.  He,  who  in  action  was 
as  cheerful  a  soul  as  you  could  wish  to  serve,  was 
harassed  by  the  long  expectances  of  diplomacy, 
and  in  the  routine  work  of  governing  most  grim. 
The  Nonesi  had  come  to  hate  him  a  good  deal, 
but  to  fear  him  more.  Expenses  were  incalculable, 
the  taxes  grew ;  there  were  riots.  Savage  snaps 
of  speech  in  the  Council  did  harm ;  imprisonments 
followed,  then  some  unaccountable  sudden  deaths. 
High  and  low  alike,  none  knew  where  the  blow 
might  fall,  but  all  flinched  at  it. 
o  193 


i94  LITTLE   NOVELS   OF   ITALY 

In  these  distresses  Molly  served  him  well,  for 
she  at  least  was  universally  loved.  If  the  Duke 
had  a  man  stabbed,  the  Duchess  took  such  sweet 
consolation  to  the  widow  that  none  could  mur- 
mur long.  To  watch  her  warm  tears  flow  was 
in  itself  a  solace;  to  feel  her  arms,  to  win  her 
kissing  mouth,  quickened  those  doubtful  poor 
souls. 

Furtively  also,  Grifone  was  on  her  side  ;  a  neat 
phrase  here  and  there  made  her  position  plain  to 
the  most  infidel  in  the  city.  It  is  true  that  while 
he  helped  her  there  he  tortured  her  otherwhere 
inexpressibly.  He  hardly  ever  left  her  now,  and 
her  heart  bled  to  see  him  go  in  fear  of  her ;  she 
prayed  night  and  day  that  he  might  have  strength 
to  shake  off  this  biting,  cruel  love.  It  never 
entered  her  head  that  she  could  console  him  by 
perfidy  to  a  perfidious  husband ;  it  had  entered 
Grifone's  head  a  hundred  times,  but  he  always 
put  it  out.  He  could  afford  to  wait  for  what, 
after  all,  he  only  valued  as  a  concession  to  vulgar 
opinion.  In  thought  she  had  been  his  for  a  year; 
and  in  the  mind  he  lived  most  deliciously.  It  was, 
no  doubt,  his  full  intent  to  make  her  his  in  all 
the  grossness  of  the  fact,  but  not  until  he  had 
got  rid  of  Amilcare,  or  induced  Amilcare  to  get 
rid  of  himself.  This  was  what  the  stiffnecked 
Condottiere  was  now  doing  as  fast  as  his  best 
enemies  could  have  wished.  His  people  hated 
him  so  bitterly  that  he  would  certainly  have  worn 
mail  —  had  not  Molly  been  his  mail.  They  spared 
him  because  they  loved  her,  and  believed  that  he 
still  had  her  heart.  "  Amilcar,  uxoris  gratia,  Dux," 
was  now  the  fact.     Grifone  could  have  destroyed 


THE   DUCHESS   OF  NONA  195 

belief  and  him  together  by  a  lift  of  the  eyebrow; 
but  he  wanted  more  than  that,  so  waited  on. 

The  little  fellow  was  really  extraordinary.  Lux- 
urious as  he  was  to  the  root,  and  effeminate; 
hating  as  he  did  cold  water,  cold  food,  the  cold 
shoulder ;  one  and  all  of  these  shuddering  things 
he  had  schooled  himself  to  bear  without  a  blink. 
He  grew  even  to  take  a  stern  pleasure  in  the 
bitterness  they  cost  him,  as  he  turned  them  to 
his  uses  and  reckoned  up  his  balance  at  the  bank. 
Amilcare  snarled  at  him,  cut  his  words  out  of  his 
mouth,  struck  him,  kicked  him  once  like  a  yard- 
dog.     Grifone  added  it  all  to  his  store. 

But  as  the  day  for  Duke  Cesare's  visit  drew 
near,  Molly  began  to  be  much  again  in  her  hus- 
band's thoughts  —  how  far  she  would  go  in  this 
maturer  time.  She  had  charmed  the  man  once 
before,  at  Foligno ;  she  had  charmed  everybody. 
But  then  she  had  been  charmed  herself.  Sub- 
sequently she  had  charmed  Bentivoglio,  not  so 
happily  but  that  she  endangered  her  own  spell. 
That  was  the  present  trouble,  for  hitherto  her 
charm  had  lain  precisely  in  herself,  in  the  little 
everyday  acts  which  were  her  own  nature.  Ben- 
tivoglio had  reasonably  wanted  more:  so  would 
Borgia  want  very  much  more.  Could  Molly  be 
brought,  not  to  surrender  all  he  wanted,  but  to 
make  him  want?  Amilcare,  growing  tense  be- 
tween his  difficulties,  felt  that  explanations  must 
be  given  and  received,  felt  also  that  they  must 
come  from  himself  —  in  fact,  Grifone  had  de- 
clined them  —  and  felt  that  he  was  not  strong 
in  such  work.  Direction  he  could  give,  but  not 
explanation.     However,  he  must  try. 


196  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

On  a  vivid  morning  of  early  summer,  when 
the  lemon-trees  in  the  cortile  looked  as  if  they 
had  been  cut  out  of  metal,  and  the  planes  and 
very  poplars  were  unwinking  in  the  thick  blue 
air,  Amilcare  came  into  his  wife's  room.  She 
had  not  expected  him;  he  found  her  lying  di- 
shevelled and  unbusked,  with  all  her  glossy  hair 
tumbled  loose.  Very  much  a  maiden  still,  not- 
withstanding her  year  and  a  half  of  troublous  mar- 
riage, she  jumped  up  directly  she  saw  him,  and, 
blushful,  covered  her  neck.  Amilcare,  finding 
her  and  the  act  adorable  together,  took  her  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her ;  then  he  led  her  back  by  the 
hand  to  the  window-cushions,  and  made  her  sit 
upon  his  knee.  He  began  to  play  with  her  hair. 
"  What  a  silken  mesh,  my  Molly !  What  a  snare 
for  a  man  in  this  lovely  cloud !  How  fragrant  of 
roses !  Ah,  most  beautiful  wife,  you  could  lead 
all  Italy  by  a  strand  of  this  miraculous  hair." 

She  was  pleased  with  his  praises,  touched  and 
grateful ;  she  kissed  him  for  them.  So  they  grew 
more  friendly  than  they  had  been  ever  since  the 
Bentivoglio  had  shocked  her  modesty  and  faith 
in  him  at  once.  Amilcare  rattled  on;  love-talk 
comes  easily  to  the  Italian  tongue,  whose  very 
vocables  are  caresses. 

Gradually  he  drew  in  and  in  to  the  Borgia, 
centre  of  all  his  spinning  thought. 

"There  is  a  lover  of  yours,  for  instance!"  he 
said,  comically  aghast ;  and  Molly  laughed. 

"  Why,  Amilcare,  you  make  all  the  world  to 
be  my  lover,  all  the  world  to  look  at  me  through 
your  eyes.  Believe  it,  they  see  me  truer  than  you 
do.     I  am  a  very  simple  person." 


LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY  197 

Amilcare  began  to  count  upon  his  fingers,  one 
hand  meeting  the  other  round  Molly's  caught 
waist. 

"  The  Borgia,  the  Count  of  Cavalcalupo,  Oreste 
Colonna,  Negroponte,  three  Bishops  at  Sesto, 
Bianca  Maria,  Cardinal  Ascanio  Sforza,  Orde- 
laffi,  Benti " 

She  stopped  him  there  with  a  hand  on  his 
mouth.     "  Pah,  the  horrible  man  !  " 

Amilcare  gaily  struggled  for  vent,  and  — 
"  voglio !  "  he  concluded  the  word.  "  You  may 
not  relish  the  trophy,  my  wife ;  but  him  you 
undoubtedly  charmed.  And  now  Don  Cesare  is 
coming.  Him  also  it  will  be  as  needful  as  easy 
to  please." 

Molly  turned  in  her  husband's  arms  to  con- 
sider him.  Something  in  his  tone  (rather  than 
the  words  he  had  used)  struck  bodefully  upon 
her.  Amilcare  was  kissing  her  hair  and  would 
not  give  over:  she  cast  down  her  eyes  unsatisfied. 

"  I  hope  I  may  always  please  my  lord's  friends," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

Amilcare  settled  himself  yet  more  luxuriously 
in  his  cushions,  and  looked  at  the  ceiling. 

"  You  must  charm  him,  my  soul,"  he  said 
intensely;  "you  must  charm  him.  I  am  in  his 
hands,  in  his  way;  he  has  sought  my  ruin  and 
I  believe  still  seeks  it.  Twice  he  has  tried  to 
poison  me,  once  to  have  me  stabbed ;  if  he  tries 
again  he  will  succeed.  Nothing  can  turn  Don 
Cesare  from  his  path  but  a  woman.  Therefore, 
you  must  charm  him,  ravish  his  eyes.  You 
know  very  well  how  to  do  that." 

Molly   stared,    grew    red,    began    to    stammer. 


19S  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

"  But  how  can  I  —  ?     Oh,  Amilcare,  what  do  you 
ask  of  me  ?  " 

Then  he  looked  at  her,  severely  but  without 
malice.  She  noticed  for  the  first  time  the  cold- 
steel  hue  in  his  eyes,  the  complete  absence  of 
friendliness  —  a  tinge  which  his  men  knew  very 
well,  and  other  men's  men  even  better. 

"  I  ask  of  you,  my  Molly,  that  the  man  be  put 
at  his  ease,"  he  said  deliberately  (happy  in  order- 
ing at  last) ;  "  more,  that  his  direction  be  turned. 
He  must  be  made  high-hearted,  full  of  glorious 
hope,  not  counting  cost,  keen  in  pursuit.  He 
must  blow  off  the  cobwebs  of  his  doubt ;  rather, 
these  must  shred  from  him  as  he  flies  in  chase.  I 
cannot  afford  his  distrust.  I  can  do  nothing  with- 
out you.  Light  of  Heaven !  am  I  asking  too  much  ? 
Or  do  you  suppose  that  my  safety  with  the 
Borgia  is  not  yours  also  ? "  He  shrugged  his 
intolerable  indignation  and  threw  back  his  head. 
Thus  he  avoided  to  look  at  his  wife. 

She  still  sat  upon  his  knee,  but  like  an  alien, 
bolt  upright,  reasoning  out  her  misery  with  wide 
tearless  eyes,  and  a  hand  to  press  her  bosom  down. 
Shocks  were  no  more  for  her  —  she  had  learned 
too  much;  but  these  things  seemed  like  hard 
fingers  on  a  familiar  wound,  which  opened  the 
old  sore  and  set  it  aching.  The  part  he  now  put 
to  her  had  only  to  be  named  to  be  shown  for  hor- 
rible ;  was  yet  too  horrible  to  be  named ;  yet  had 
to  be  named. 

"  You  ask  of  me  to  charm  your  enemy,"  she  said 
in  a  still,  fascinated  voice  (as  if  she  were  forced  by 
a  spell  to  speak  obscenity) :  "  to  beguile  your  enemy 
—  to  make  him  —  make  him  —  seek  me?     Him, 


THE   DUCHESS  OF  NONA  199 

the  man  who  tried  to  murder  you  ?  Charm  him  ? 
Charm  him  ?     Lead  him  to  pursue  ?  " 

She  could  hardly  drag  the  words  out  of  her,  but 
Lord !  what  a  fool  she  was.  At  least,  Amilcare 
thought  so.  The  plainest  duty,  the  easiest ;  this 
childish  woman's  game  !  He  jumped  up,  quiver- 
ing with  nerves  on  edge,  and  the  sympathy  be- 
tween the  pair  lacked  even  touch.  Molly  found 
her  feet,  stood  brooding  before  him,  all  her  hair 
about  her  lowered  face. 

To  see  her  thus,  a  mute,  a  block,  maddened 
Amilcare.  He  clenched  his  fists.  "  Yes,  Madam  " 
—  his  words  bit  the  air  —  "  you  shall  charm  this 
enemy  of  mine,  if  you  please;  this  assassin,  this 
ravener  of  other  men's  goods.  You  shall  charm 
him  in  the  way  you  best  know  —  you  and  your 
nation.  Bentivoglio  I  excused  you :  he  was  not 
worth  your  pains.  Borgia  I  shall  not  excuse  you. 
I  showed  you  to  him  with  this  only  view ;  I  asked 
him  here,  I  speak  to  you  now,  with  this  only  view. 
You  are  adorable  in  every  part,  if  you  choose  to 
be.  Italy  has  no  woman  like  you,  so  winning, 
so  much  the  sumptuous  child :  such  tall  buds 
shoot  only  in  the  North.  To  it,  then!  Charm 
him  as  you  charmed  me.  Teach  him  —  Santo 
Dio  !  —  teach  him  to  die  for  a  smile.  At  least 
afford  him  the  smile  or  the  provocation  of  it: 
the  rest  shall  be  my  affair.  Soul  of  Christ !  am 
I  to  miss  this  astounding  opportunity?  Never 
in  the  world.  I  bid  you  by  all  you  hold  sacred 
to  do  your  duty.     Am  I  plain  enough  ?  " 

He  was.  She  had  grown  as  grey  as  a  cloth, 
could  say  nothing,  only  motion  with  her  dry  lips. 
But  she  bent  her  head  to  him,  and  stretched  out 
her  hands  in  token  of  obedience  to  law. 


200  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

"  Good,"  said  Amilcare ;  "  my  wife  understands 
me."  And  he  went  out  then  and  there  to  his 
Council.  His  conviction  of  her  submissiveness 
(and  of  other  things  about  her  to  modify  it)  may 
be  gauged  by  the  fact  that  he  never  saw  her  again 
(except  ceremonially)  until  a  certain  moment  after 
the  dinner  with  Borgia. 

Grifone  saw  her  all  the  more  for  that.  What 
he  saw  satisfied  him  that  she  was  in  terrible 
trouble.  She  slunk  about,  to  his  view,  as  if  beaten 
down  by  shame.  He  had  seen  young  girls  in 
that  strait  very  often,  when  the  first  step  had 
been  taken,  the  first  flush  faded  from  the  venture, 
the  first  after-knowledge  come.  They  always 
went  as  though  they  were  watched.  More  than 
that,  he  discerned  that  she  was  nearly  broken 
for  want  of  a  counsellor :  he  caught  her  long  gaze 
fixed  upon  him  sometimes.  She  seemed  to  be 
peering  through  him,  spoke  to  herself  (he  thought) 
as  she  sat  vacantly  upon  her  throne,  or  at  table 
among  the  quick  wits,  with  all  her  spying  ladies 
to  fence  her  in.  If  any  one  addressed  the  word  to 
her  she  flushed  suddenly  and  began  to  catch  after 
her  breath.  He  could  see  how  shortlv  that 
breath  came,  and  how  it  seemed  to  hurt  her.  If 
she  answered  at  all,  it  was  stupidly  and  beside 
the  purpose ;  then  she  would  look  conscious  of 
her  dulness,  grow  uncomfortably  red,  be  at  the 
point  to  cry.  All  this,  while  it  could  not  but 
gratify   him,  made   him  a  little   sorry  too. 

One  night,  at  a  very  brilliant  assembly  given 
by  the  notorious  Donna  Smeralda  Buonaccorso, 
he  saw  her  standing  forlorn  on  the  terrace,  like  a 
lonely  rock  in  the  sea  —  the  most  beautiful  woman 


THE   DUCHESS  OF   NONA  201 

in  Nona  and  the  most  splendidly  attired,  absolutely 
alone  in  all  that  chattering,  grimacing  crowd. 
The  Duchess  of  Nona !  This  consideration  alone 
moved  him  to  real  pity  —  for  to  be  great  and 
unfortunate  has  a  freakish  way  of  touching  your 
heart  —  it  moved  him  quietly  towards  her,  to  whis- 
per in  her  ear  — 

"Madonna" — (and  Heaven!  how  she  started) 
"  Madonna,  what  you  need  now  is  the  courage  of 
your  race.  But  courage,  I  well  know,  comes  only 
by  confidence,  and  confidence  is  what  I  can  give 
you.    Trust  for  trust :  will  you  hear  me  ?  " 

But  she  looked  piteously  at  him,  as  if  she  had 
been  found  out,  and  put  her  hands  to  her  ears. 

"  I  dare  not  hear  you !  I  dare  not !  How  can 
you  speak  to  me  when  I  have  never  asked  — 
never  thought  —  ?  Ah,  leave  me,  Grifone.  I  have 
not  heard  you  yet:  ask  me  not  —  but  go!" 

It  was  she  that  went,  that  hurried  from  him, 
stumbling  in  her  haste,  like  a  hunted  thing.  He 
could  see  no  more  of  her  that  night,  so  with  a 
shrug  turned  to  his  quiet  amusement.  There 
were  women  there  pleasant  enough.  It  was  true 
that  he  wanted  but  one  woman  superlatively ;  but 
it  was  eminently  Grifone's  maxim  that,  failing 
that  which  you  need,  you  should  take  that  which 
you  can  get. 

The  last  stage  in  the  education  of  Molly,  Amil- 
care  found  must  positively  be  left  to  the  Secre- 
tary. 

On  the  night  before  Duke  Cesare's  arrival, 
when  every  other  preparation  had  been  made, 
Grifone  came  into  his  master's  room,  late.  He 
said  nothing,  nor  got  any  greeting;  but  he  placed 


202  LITTLE   NOVELS   OF   ITALY 

a  little  phial  on  the  table,  and  waited.  Amilcare 
looked  at  it,  did  not  touch  it.  It  was  a  very  small 
phial,  half  full  of  a  clear  liquid. 

"  You  prepared  it  yourself,  Grifone  ? " 

Grifone  nodded  pleasantly. 

"  Then  I  may  rest  assured  —  ?  " 

"  You  may,  my  lord." 

"  I  will  ask  you  to  make  all  arrangements,  Gri- 
fone. When  the  time  comes  you  will  take  the 
cup  to  Madonna  Duchessa,  with  a  hint  of  so  much 
as  may  be  necessary  to  provide  against  mischances. 
Will  this  be  done  ?  " 

"  Punctually  and  surely,  Excellence."  The  Sec- 
retary retired  with  his  bottle. 

Amilcare  sat  on  with  a  tight  smile  which 
neither  waxed  nor  waned,  but  seemed  frozen  on 
his  face.  He  may  thus  have  sat  for  two  or  three 
hours,  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  point  at  the  table's  edge. 
That  point,  whatever  it  was,  a  speck  of  dust,  may 
be,  seemed  to  grow  and  grow  till  it  was  monstrous 
and  a  burden  intolerable  to  endure.  Amilcare, 
with  an  effort,  stretched  out  his  hand  and  cuffed 
at  it.  He  knocked  a  book  off  the  table  by  this 
means,  then  started,  then  swore  at  himself.  Twice 
after  this  he  spoke,  smiling  all  the  while.  "  Is  it 
now  indeed  ?  "  he  asked,  raising  one  eyebrow ;  "  is 
it  now  indeed  ?  "  Then  he  got  up,  stretched  him- 
self noisily,  and  lay  down  as  he  was  on  the  sofa, 
to  sleep  in  a  moment. 

Molly  lay  with  a  young  maid  of  hers  that  night 
and  never  had  a  wink. 


IX 

THE    LAST    BIDDING 

That  golden  Duke  of  Valentinois  had  a  pom- 
pous reception  from  his  august  ally  of  Nona. 
Amilcare,  riding  like  Castor,  at  one  with  his 
horse,  went  out  at  the  head  of  his  court  to  meet 
him.  The  Centaurs  lined  the  way  with  a  hedge 
of  steel.  Hat  in  hand,  the  Duke  of  Nona  rode 
back  with  his  guest  to  the  garlanded  gates.  There, 
a  fluttered  choir,  all  virgins  and  all  white,  strewed 
flowers ;  from  that  point  to  the  Piazza  Grande 
one  song  came  leaping  on  the  heels  of  another. 
On  the  steps  of  the  Duomo  were  the  clergy  in 
brocade,  a  mitred  bishop  half -smothered  under  his 
cope  in  their  midst.  The  two  Dukes  dismounted, 
and  hand  in  hand  entered  the  church ;  the  organ 
pealed ;  the  choir  burst  out  with  the  chant,  Ecce, 
Rex  tuus  venit ;  and  then  (seeing  Cesare  had 
once  been  a  Cardinal),  Ecce  Sacerdos  magnus. 
The  smoke  of  incense  went  rolling  to  the  roof, 
Te  Deum  spired  between  the  rifts ;  an  Archbishop 
intoned  the  Mass  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  Cesare,  in 
white  satin,  golden-headed,  red-gold  in  the  beard, 
cloaked  and  collared  with  the  Golden  Fleece, 
knelt  in  the  middle  of  the  dome ;  beside  him  the 
hawk-faced  Amilcare,  splendid  in  silver  armour, 
knelt  also — but  stiffly;  whereas  the  Borgia  (grace- 
ful in  all  that  he  did)  drooped  easily  forward  on 

203 


204  LITTLE  NOVELS  OF  ITALY   i 

his  prie-dieu,  like  the  Archangel  Gabriel  who 
brought  the  great  tidings  to  Madonna  Maria. 
Amilcare,  at  that  rate,  was  like  Michael,  his  more 
trenchant  colleague,  that  "  bird  of  God." 

The  Bishop,  who  knew  perfectly  well  why  the 
Duke  had  come  to  Nona,  and  why  Nona's  Duke 
wanted  him  there,  preached  a  sermon  which  the 
saving  Italian  virtue  of  urbanity  prevented  from 
being  either  monstrous  or  ridiculous.  Before  the 
altar  the  two  lords  kissed  each  other.  One  of 
them  had  tried  and  the  other  was  about  to  try 
murder  as  a  political  expedient;  but  that  was  no 
reason  why  good  manners  should  not  prevail. 
Decent  ceremony  was  always  a  virtue  of  the  race. 

Half  an  hour  before  dinner  Grifone  (who  had 
not  been  to  church)  stood  before  his  mistress, 
who  had  not  been  suffered  to  go.  He  had  a 
flagon  in  his  hands,  of  silver  gilt,  like  the  calyx 
of  a  great  flower  whose  stem  was  sheathed  in 
the  clustered  wings  of  angels,  whose  base  was 
their  feet.  He  held  it  in  both  hands  as  if  it 
were  a  chalice. 

Molly,  beaten  out  and  white,  looked  at  it  dully, 
but  did  not  seem  to  see  it. 

"  Madonna  mia,"  said  the  youth,  "  this  is  the 
loving-cup  which  I  am  to  hand  to  you  after 
dinner,  and  which  you  are  to  hand  to  Duke 
Cesare." 

He  hardly  heard  her  answer,  but  judged  by 
the  shaping  of  her  lips  that  it  was,  "  Well, 
Grifone  ? " 

"  Duke  Cesare  will  ask  you  to  sip  of  it  first, 
Madonna." 

His  looks  were  piercing;   yet  she  was  too  far 


THE   DUCHESS  OF  NONA  205 

gone  to  be  disturbed  by  such  as  those.  She  even 
smiled  faintly  at  his  emphasis. 

"  Well,  Grifone  ? "  she  asked  again,  in  that 
same  dry  whisper.  "  How  shall  that  be  harm  to 
him  if  I  do  it  ?  " 

Grifone  blew  out  his  lips.  "  Harm,  per  Dio  ! 
None  at  all,  but  common  prudence  on  his  part. 
No  harm  to  him,  lady ;  but  to  you  obeying  him, 
destruction,  death ! " 

Molly  stared.  Her  breath  came  hollow  from 
her  mouth. 

"  Death,  Grifone  ? "  she  faltered,  and  then 
pored  over  his  face  again. 

He  nodded  his  words  into  her. 

"  Death,  Madonnina." 

The  girl  tottered  to  her  feet  —  had  to  balance 
like  a  rope-dancer  to  keep  upon  them. 

"  But  then— but  then  —  O  Saviour !  " 

She  threw  her  arms  up.  He  thought  she  would 
fall,  so  put  one  of  his  round  her  waist.  He  felt 
her  heart  knocking  like  a  drum,  pressed  her 
closer,  drew  her  in  and  kissed  her,  with  a  coaxing 
word  or  two.  She  tried  to  collect  herself  —  alas! 
her  wits  were  scattered  wide.  Her  head  drooped 
to  his  shoulder. 

After  that  there  began  the  most  pitiful  busi- 
ness. She  was  pleading  with  him  in  a  whining, 
wheedling,  silly  voice,  which  would  have  broken 
down  an  Englishman.  Grifone  himself  was 
pricked.  It  was  like  a  child,  frightened  into  sly- 
ness, coaxing  its  mother. 

"Dear  Grifone,  dear  Grifone!  You  will  not 
hand  me  the  cup.     Oh,  please,  please,  please ! " 

Grifone  kissed  her.     "  Why,  what  can  I  do  ? " 


206  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

he  said.  "  My  lord  has  ordered  it  so,  dear 
one." 

She  took  no  notice  of  his  familiarities ;  indeed, 
the  tone  they  lent  his  voice  may  have  soothed 
the  poor  affectionate  wretch.  But  she  only  wrung 
her  hands  at  his  news. 

"No,  no,  no!  Tis  impossible!  No,  no,  he 
could  never  do  it!" 

"  I  can  repeat  his  words,"  said  the  inexorable 
Grifone ;  "  he  said  —  " 

Then  she  sprang  away  from  him  as  if  he  had 
whipped  her,  and  crouched  in  a  corner,  at  bay. 
She  began  to  rave,  seemingly  in  a  high  delirium, 
pointed  at  him,  wagged  her  arm  at  him,  mowing 
the  air. 

"  Never  repeat  them,  never  repeat  them.  I 
shall  die  if  you  do !  " 

Grifone  set  down  his  cup,  ran  forward  and  em- 
braced her.  "  My  lovely  lady,  my  adorable  Molly ! " 
he  murmured,  in  a  passion  of  admiration  for  her 
transformed,  unearthly  beauty. 

She  noticed  nothing  of  him  or  his  doings,  lay 
lax  in  his  arms.  She  stared,  gulping  down  hor- 
ror; she  looked  like  some  shocked  Addolorata 
come  upon  the  body  of  her  dead  Son.  And  so, 
perhaps  (since  all  good  women  mother  their 
lovers  or  lords),  she  was  face  to  face  with  her 
dead.  Tears  came  to  blot  out  her  misery,  she 
could  not  stay  their  fall.  They  anointed  also  the 
burning  cheeks  of  young  Grifone,  and  drove  him 
outside  himself  with  love.  He  kissed  her  softly 
again,  with  reverence,  and  whispered  — 

"  Courage,  sweet  lady ;  I  shall  be  with  you. 
I  have  it  all  in  hand.     The  end  for  you  and  me 


THE   DUCHESS  OF  NONA  207 

shall  be  happiness  undreamed  of  yet.  The  Duke 
comes  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour."  Then  he  left  her 
alone. 

"  The  affair  will  go  by  clockwork,"  he  assured 
himself.  "  Neither  fast  nor  slow,  but  by  clock- 
work." He  had  an  ingenious  mind,  and  loved 
mechanics. 


X 

WITH    ALL    FAULTS 

At  the  coming  out  from  church  the  two  Dukes 
(mentally  at  least)  separated;  their  paths  coin- 
cided, but  not  their  thoughts,  nor  their  behaviour. 
By  common  consent,  as  it  appeared,  Amilcare  at 
once  resumed  the  obsequious,  Cesare  the  overbear- 
ing port.  Amilcare  talked  profusively,  smirked, 
grimaced,  pranced  by  the  other's  side,  writhed 
his  hands,  in  copious  explanation  of  nothing  at 
all.  Cesare  shrugged.  The  amount  of  disdain 
an  Italian  can  throw  into  a  pair  of  dull  eyes  or 
an  irritable  shoulder,  the  amount  of  it  another 
will  take  without  swallowing,  can  still  be  studied 
whenever  a  young  lieutenant  of  the  line  sits  down 
to  breakfast  in  a  tavern,  and  the  waiter  slaves  for 
his  penny  fee.  Yet,  depend  upon  it,  the  cringer 
has  balanced  to  a  nicety  the  sweets  and  sours  of 
boot-blacking  against  the  buona  mano ;  the  rest 
is  pure  commerce.  So  now,  the  deliberate  inso- 
lence of  the  flushed  Borgia  towards  his  host  was  a 
thing  to  be  dumb  at;  yet  Passavente  redoubled 
his  volubility. 

Going  up  the  steps  of  the  Palazzo  Bagnaca- 
vallo,  the  guest  plumply  told  his  entertainer  to 
bring  out  the  woman  and  go  to  the  devil  with  his 

208 


THE   DUCHESS  OF  NONA  209 

cackling.  Amilcare  laughed  all  over  his  face  at 
the  best  joke  in  the  world,  and  bowed  to  the  earth. 
Thus  humoured  they  went  in  to  dinner. 

Molly,  in  fold  over  fold  of  silk  gauze  which  let 
every  lovely  limb  be  seen  as  glorified  in  a  rosy 
mist,  met  them  in  the  ante-room,  and  thenceforth 
the  Borgia  had  eyes  for  nothing  but  the  beauty 
of  her.  The  moment  he  saw  her,  he  drew,  as  once 
before,  a  sharp  breath ;  she  greeted  him  in  her 
fashion;  he  was  moved  to  a  fit  of  trembling. 

From  that  time  forth  Amilcare  was  as  though 
he  were  not.  The  Roman  waited  for  no  invitation 
and  disregarded  those  he  got.  Would  his  Grace 
be  pleased  to  dine  ?  His  Grace  went  on  pouring 
out  his  talk  to  the  wonderful  rose-coloured  lady. 
Amilcare,  patient  to  excess,  watched.  Presently 
Cesare  said,  "  Madama,  shall  we  go  to  dinner  ? " 
and  to  dinner  they  went,  Amilcare  rubbing  his 
hands  behind  them. 

They  found  the  table  prepared  —  a  very  low 
one ;  divans  to  sit  upon ;  none  but  Grifone,  pale 
and  respectful,  in  the  little  painted  chamber. 

All  this  had  been  carefully  provided.  The 
Duke's  suite  dined  in  another  wing  of  the  palace ; 
the  choir  of  minstrels,  who  held  the  passage  be- 
tween them,  had  mail  under  their  cassocks,  and 
two-edged  swords  made  for  thrusting.  They  were 
fifty  strong.  Every  page-in-waiting  in  the  hall 
and  long  cool  passages  was  a  "  Centaur  "  armed 
to  the  teeth.  Don  Cesare,  it  seems,  had  walked 
into  a  steel  trap  at  last.  Do  you  wonder  that 
Amilcare  could  afford  a  supple  back  ? 

But  as  the  delicate  meats  succeeded  each  other 
—  each  duly  tasted  by  Grifone  before  a  morsel 


210  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

went  to  plate  —  there  was  one,  in  the  surge  of  her 
terrors,  struck  dumb  with  what  was,  rather,  won- 
der. The  magnificent  Cesare  went  his  road  over 
the  feelings  of  his  host;  the  host  bowed  and 
waved  his  hands.  Why  should  he  not  ?  Never 
one  word  of  answer,  never  a  gleam  of  attention 
did  he  win  from  the  Roman.  Why  should  he 
care  ?  His  wife  was  doing  her  duty,  his  enemy 
was  webbed :  what  else  could  matter  ?  The 
Italian  shrug  goes  deeper  than  the  shoulders ; 
sometimes  it  strokes  the  heart  of  a  man.  The 
very  indignities  heaped  upon  the  adventurer  made 
his  revenge  the  sweeter  nursling. 

But  Molly,  the  tall  English  girl,  burning  in  her 
shameful  robe,  saw  it  vastly  otherwise.  That  a 
man  could  bend  so  low!  That  she  should  ever 
have  loved  a  man  with  such  a  stooping  back ! 
To  think  of  that  made  (for  the  moment)  every 
other  degradation  light.  Her  part  as  yet  was 
one  of  sufferance :  to  look  handsome,  languid 
with  the  excess  of  her  burden  of  beauty;  to 
smile  slowly,  to  keep  her  eyes  on  her  lap.  Pure 
passivity  all  this,  under  which  the  miserable  soul 
could  torture  in  secret.  As  she  often  had  a  back- 
ache, it  was  easy  to  wilt  among  her  cushions ;  as 
she  was  always  mute  before  flattery,  to  smile  was 
as  simple  as  to  frown  (and  meant  no  more) ;  as 
she  was  ashamed  of  herself  and  her  husband,  she 
could  hardly  hope  to  lift  her  honest  eyes  or 
temper  her  furious  blushing. 

It  would  be  untrue  to  say  that  the  Borgia's 
eager  under-current  of  love-language  stirred  her 
not  at  all.  Even  to  her  the  man's  fame  made 
his  homage  a  tribute ;  something  it  was,  beyond 


THE   DUCHESS  OF   NONA  211 

doubt,  to  be  courted  by  the  greatest  prince  in 
Italy.  And  he  had  not  touched  her  yet.  Amilcare, 
whose  desperate  grinning  made  his  jaws  ache, 
noticed  so  much  as  he  watched  her,  fidgeting  in 
his  place.  His  nails  were  for  ever  at  his  teeth : 
when  the  fruit  should  come  in  he  was  to  slip  out, 
and  Grifone  to  crown  the  work.  Meanwhile,  the 
flagrant  unconcern  for  his  whereabouts  shown  by 
the  victim  might  have  stung  a  blind  worm  to  bite, 
or  excused  any  treachery.  Amilcare  had  no  rage 
at  all  and  felt  the  need  of  no  excuse.  All  his 
anxiety  was  that  Cesare  should  enmesh  himself 
deep  enough ;  and  then  — !  The  thought  of  what 
should  happen  then  set  his  head  singing  a  song 
as  mad  as  Judith's. 

The  still  Grifone  stood  behind  his  mistress 
and  saw  Cesare 's  golden  head  sink  near  and  yet 
nearer  to  her  shoulder.  He  watched  his  arm 
over  the  back  of  her  seat,  and  how  his  other  hand 
crept  towards  the  lady's  idle  pair.  The  room  held 
those  four,  and  them  not  long.  In  his  time  Amil- 
care muttered  some  excuse  and  tiptoed  out. 

Cesare  was  saying,  "  Ah,  give  me  love  —  love 
only — else  I  must  die!" 

Molly  answered  nothing  with  her  lips,  but  in 
her  bosom  prayed  ceaselessly  for  pity. 

"  Love  me,  pledge  me  with  your  lips,  let  me 
drink  of  you,  O  my  soul !  "   sighed  the  Duke. 

"  Ecco,  Madonna,"  said  Grifone,  and  handed 
her  the  cup. 

"  The  chalice  of  love !  "  cried  Cesare,  straining 
towards  the  white  girl.  "  Drink  to  me,  my  heart, 
and  I  will  drink  from  thee ! " 

Molly   still   held    the    cup,  though  the  liquor 


212  LITTLE   NOVELS   OF   ITALY 

curved  brimming  at  the  lip.  Her  eyes  were 
sightless,  her  head  shaking  with  palsy. 

"  Drink,  drink,  my  soul !  " 

"  Yes,  my  lord,  yes,  yes ;  I  must  drink  very 
deep,"  she  said,  and  raised  the  cup. 

"  Pshutt !  "  said  Grifone. 

She  turned  like  a  caught  beast,  wild  and 
blanched  with  horror.  She  rose  suddenly,  sway- 
ing on  her  feet,  entangled  one  of  them  in  her  long 
robe  and  stumbled  forward  to  stay  herself  by  the 
table.  She  looked  like  some  spurred  Bacchante, 
lurching  over  the  board  with  the  great  flagon 
a-nod  in  her  hand.  Cesare  made  to  catch  her 
in  his  arms,  and  reached  for  the  cup ;  but  then 
she  screamed  with  all  her  might  and  threw  the 
accursed  thing  crash  upon  the  pavement. 

"  Treachery !  Treachery !  "  Molly  shrieked ;  and 
again,  "  Treachery !  O  God,  he  has  made  me  a 
devil !  "  She  threw  her  head  up,  herself  tumbled 
back  upon  the  cushions;  knew  nothing  of  Grifone's 
"  Go,  go,  go,  my  lord ;  the  house  is  quick  with  mur- 
der ! "  and  when  she  opened  her  eyes  at  last  saw 
Amilcare  standing  grim  and  grey  before  her. 

Who  can  say  what  shall  best  reveal  a  man, 
whether  love  or  hate  or  fear  ?  Or  how  to  know 
which  of  these  three  passions  stripped  her  this 
Amilcare  naked  ?  Naked  he  was  now,  and  she 
found  that  she  had  never  known  him.  The  colour 
of  his  face  was  that  of  old  white  wax ;  his  mouth 
seemed  stretched  to  cracking  point,  neither  turned 
up  at  the  corners  nor  down,  but  a  bleak  slit  jag- 
ged across  his  face.  He  fastened  her  with  his  hard 
eyes,  which  seemed  smaller  than  usual,  and  had  a 
scared  look,  as  if  he  was  positively  disconcerted  at 


THE   DUCHESS  OF  NONA  213 

what  he  read  as  they  glimmered  over  his  wife. 
In  one  of  his  hands  (never  still)  he  had  a  long 
knife,  very  lean  in  the  blade. 

"  Ah,  what  do  you  want  of  me  more,  Amilcare  ? " 
It  was  Molly  spoke  first,  in  a  whisper. 

He  croaked  his  reply.    "  I  am  going  to  kill  you." 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  You  are  going  to  kill  me,  my  lord  ?  " 

"  You  have  sold  me  to  my  enemy.  He  is  your 
lover." 

"  No,  no !  I  have  no  lover,  Amilcare ;  I  have 
never  had  a  lover." 

"  Liar !  "  he  thundered.  "  If  he  had  not  been 
your  lover  you  would  not  have  spared  his  life. 
There  can  be  no  other  reason.     I  am  not  a  fool." 

To  Grifone  that  was  just  what  he  appeared. 
To  her  some  ray  of  her  own  soul's  honest  logic 
showed  at  the  last. 

"  Amilcare ! "  she  cried  out,  on  her  knees, 
"  Amilcare,  listen,  I  pray  you.  I  have  done  you 
no  wrong ;  I  implore  you  not  to  hurt  me ;  I  have 
done  you  honour.  It  was  because  I  loved  you 
that  I  saved  his  life.  I  speak  the  truth,  my  lord,  I 
speak  the  truth." 

"  I  have  never  thought  you  to  speak  otherwise ; 
but  I  have  been  wrong,  it  appears.  The  excuse 
is  monstrous.     I  am  going  to  kill  you." 

The  miserable  girl  turned  him  a  pinched  face. 
She  searched  for  any  shred  of  what  she  had 
known  in  him,  but  all  the  deadly  mask  of  him  she 
saw  told  her  nothing.  She  began  to  be  witless 
again,  to  wring  her  hands,  to  whimper  and  whine. 

Amilcare  looked  fixedly  at  her,  every  muscle 
in  his  face  rigid  as  stone.  So,  as  he  ruminated, 
some  whisp  of  his  racing  thought  caught  light 


2i4  LITTLE   NOVELS   OF   ITALY 

from  his  inner  rage,  flared  blood-bright  before  him, 
and  convulsing  him  drove  him  to  his  work. 

"  Gross  trull ! "  He  sprang  at  her  with  his 
knife  in  the  air.  Molly  shrieked  for  mercy;  and 
before  he  could  be  on  her  Grifone  whipped  out  his 
dagger  and  stabbed  his  master  under  the  stabbing 
arm. 

Amilcare  jerked  in  mid-career,  constricted  and 
turned  half.  But  the  blow  had  gone  too  deep 
and  too  true.  He  fell  horribly,  and  Molly  knew 
no  more. 


XI 

FROM    AN    AMATEUR'S    CABINET 

Grifone  received  his  swooning  lady  into  his 
arms  and  held  her  there  to  his  great  content, 
triumphing  in  her  beauty  and  successful  capture. 
Truly  the  adventure  had  gone  by  clockwork :  he 
might  say  (he  thought)  that  there  was  not  one 
step  in  it  but  had  been  schemed  to  an  eighth  of 
an  inch ;  and  when  you  have  to  bring  tempera- 
mental differences  into  account,  the  chances  of 
Italian  politics,  the  influence  of  climate,  the  panic 
alarms  of  a  ridden  mob  —  and  still  succeed,  why, 
then  you  may  lawfully  be  happy.  Happy  he 
was,  but  Molly  was  tall  and  he  a  light-weight. 
Moreover,  he  wanted  to  wipe  his  blade  and  be 
off.  He  judged  it  prudent,  therefore,  to  bring 
her  to  herself  again,  and  so  did  by  sousing  her 
liberally  with  cold  water. 

Molly,  as  soon  as  she  could  see,  was  aware  of 
him  kneeling  by  her  side  and  of  his  arms  about 
her.  Before  she  had  done  gasping  he  began  to 
kiss  her. 

"  My  heart  of  hearts,  my  lovely  soul,  my  lady 
Moll !  Mine  altogether  by  the  act  of  my  arm !  " 
were  some  of  his  fiery  words. 

There  were  others  yet  more  explicit,  which  left 
no  doubt  of  his  passion,  nor  any  ray  of  doubt 
of  his  intentions.  Grifone  took  everything  for 
granted,  as  he  had  from  the  beginning. 

215 


216  LITTLE  NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

"  My  charmer,"  he  said,  "  I  have  saved  you 
from  ignominious  death ;  but  I  have  saved  my- 
self also  from  a  death  by  no  means  agreeable 
to  me.  It  was  impossible  that  our  love  could 
have  held  us  much  longer  at  a  distance  from  each 
other,  impossible  that  we  could  have  still  suf- 
fered a  third  person  to  usurp  our  privileges. 
If  that  stabbed  stabber  under  the  table  had  not 
misunderstood  you  so  grotesquely  —  the  gross- 
witted  hog !  —  he  would  have  lived,  and  I  died  of 
jealousy.  A  far  from  pleasant  death,  you  will 
allow ;  worse  in  that  it  would  have  involved  your 
own.  For  I  should  have  had  to  kill  you  too,  my 
dearest  joy :  so  much  would  have  been  owing  to 
my  self-respect.  Things,  you  see,  could  not  have 
turned  out  more  fortunately;  the  fellow  trapped 
himself.  We  may  be  happy  —  we  will  be  wildly 
happy  —  you  shall  see !  " 

It  may  be  doubted  whether  Molly  heard  any- 
thing of  this  exposition ;  she  may  well  have  missed 
one  or  two  steps  in  a  carefully  reasoned  argu- 
ment. Hers  was  that  state  of  absorbent  lassitude 
when  the  words  and  acts  put  to  you  sink  into 
the  floating  mass  of  your  weakness.  The  late 
shocking  grief  hovers  felt  about  you :  a  buzz  of 
talk,  a  rain  of  caresses,  hold  the  spectre  off,  and 
so  are  serviceable  —  but  no  more.  The  cold 
cheek,  the  clay-cold  lips,  the  long,  lax  limbs  of  the 
poor  doll  were  at  his  service.  She  saw  nothing 
through  her  dim  eyes,  made  no  motion  with  her 
lips,  sobbed  rather  than  breathed,  endured  tear- 
lessly  rather  than  lived  awake  her  misery.  Misery 
is  not  the  word :  she  had  been  sent  down  to  hell 
and  had  come  back  dumb  to  earth,  neither  know- 


THE   DUCHESS  OF  NONA  217 

ing  why  such  torment  was  hers,  nor  thinking  how 
to  fly  a  second  questioning.  Had  she  been  capa- 
ble of  a  wish,  a  prayer,  or  of  begging  a  favour, 
who  can  doubt  what  it  would  have  been  ?  Death, 
oh,  death ! 

Grifone's  face  was  so  near  to  hers,  that  not  to 
kiss  her  would  have  been  an  affectation ;  but 
when  he  began  to  make  plans,  he  released  her, 
sat  up,  and  spoke  as  though  he  were  discussing 
theory. 

"  There  is  very  much  to  do,  my  love,"  said  he, 
"  but  I  think  I  see  my  way  clear.  It  is  instant 
flight,  to  begin  with,  for  one  of  the  household 
may  be  here  any  moment,  or  Don  Cesare  return. 
Such  an  one  would  have  but  to  open  the  window 
and  cry,  '  Treason,  ho ! '  to  secure  our  being  torn 
to  pieces  —  not  for  any  love  the  Nonesi  bear 
that  carrion,  but  because  not  one  of  them  could 
resist  the  chance  of  kicking  his  benefactors.  It 
is  reasonable,  after  all.  Instant  flight,  my  dear, 
if  you  please.  But  whither  ?  you  will  ask.  Luck- 
ily I  can  take  you  to  a  pretty  safe  place,  of  which 
I  have  the  key  and  custodes  goodwill  in  my 
pocket.  You  know  the  Rocca  del  Capitan  Vec- 
chio  outside  the  Latin  Gate  ?  We  go  there  for 
our  terrestrial  paradise.  Shawl  your  lovely  head, 
therefore,  stoop  your  glorious  shoulders,  and  obey 
me  exactly." 

He  got  up  as  he  made  an  end  of  speech,  drew 
her  gently  to  her  feet,  and  showed  her  how  to 
muffle  herself  in  the  hood  of  a  man's  cloak.  He 
bound  the  rest  of  the  garment  about  her  waist 
with  his  belt,  pinned  up  her  skirt  and  petticoat 
as  high  as  her  knees,  and  gave  her  his  own  stock- 


218  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

ings  and  shoes.  Then  he  helped  himself  to  his 
dead  master's  pair,  to  his  sword  and  velvet  gown ; 
and  — 

"Now,"  he  said,  "we  may  start  by  the  privy 
garden." 

He  led  the  way.  It  was  a  golden  afternoon  of 
late  summer ;  the  shadows  were  lengthening  as 
the  air  grew  tired  and  cool,  all  the  place  was  full 
of  that  vast  peace  in  which  a  day  of  strenuous  heat 
sinks  to  rest.  The  faint  breeze  in  the  myrtles 
was  like  a  sleeper's  sigh :  — 

"  Majoresque  cadunt  altis  de  montibus  um- 
brae — "  murmured  Grifone  to  himself,  as  he 
slipped  among  the  cypresses  over  the  grass.  Molly 
followed  him  with  faltering  knees,  nearly  spent. 
As  always,  she  was  at  the  mercy  of  a  clear  head, 
never  masterless  when  a  man  was  near  her.  Mor- 
ally, nervously,  she  seemed  to  be  dead ;  so  she  fol- 
lowed her  new  lord  as  meekly  as  she  had  followed 
her  old  — that  one  to  Nona  across  the  seas,  this 
one  by  gloomy,  pent  ways  through  the  stale- 
smelling  streets  of  the  city  to  the  Rocca  del 
Capitan  Vecchio. 

Meekly  enough  she  went,  yet  not  so  far  nor 
so  meekly  but  that  she  gave  Grifone  a  genuine 
surprise.  It  seems  that  the  air,  the  exercise, 
precautions,  what-not,  had  cried  back  her 
escaped  wits :  certain  it  is  that,  once  in  the 
storm-bitten  old  fortress,  she  thanked  her  leader 
and  rescuer  with  a  tremulous  sweetness  all  her 
own,  and  then  —  by  Heaven  and  Earth  !  —  urged 
him  gently  to  go  back,  "  lest  her  honour  should 
be  breathed  upon." 

Her  honour!     Grifone,  the  romancer,  turned 


THE   DUCHESS  OF  NONA  219 

sick  with  amazement.  He  was  dumbfounded, 
could  not  believe  his  ears,  nor  yet  his  eyes;  that 
there  before  him  should  stand  that  drooping, 
flagged,  pitiful  beauty,  always  at  his  discretion, 
now  wholly  at  his  mercy  within  nine-foot  walls, 
and  talk  to  him  with  wet  eyes  and  pleading  lips 
of  the  Cardinal  Virtues. 

As  soon  as  he  could  collect  himself  he  put 
this  before  her  in  a  whirl  of  words. 

Santo  Dio !  Timidity,  prejudice,  after  what 
had  passed !  In  what  possible  way,  or  by  what 
possible  quibble  of  a  priest  could  anything  stay 
them  now  from  the  harvest  of  a  sown  love  —  two 
years'  sowing,  by  the  Redeemer,  two  years'  tor- 
ture;  and  now  —  a  solid  square  fortress  on  a 
naked  rock,  deemed  impregnable  by  anything 
but  black  treachery!  Let  him  make  assurance 
incredibly  secure :  say  the  word,  and  he  would 
go  and  silence  the  old  custode  for  ever.  It  was 
done  in  a  moment  —  what  more  could  he  do  ? 

So  he  prayed;  but  Molly  was  a  rock  at  last. 
She  ignored  everything  but  the  fact  that  she  could 
never  survive  the  night  if  he  stayed  in  the  fortress- 
tower.  Such,  she  assured  him,  was  the  fixed  habit 
of  her  extraordinary  race.  She  made  no  pretence 
of  mourning  her  dead  husband ;  indeed  her  hor- 
ror of  him  set  her  shuddering  at  his  mere  name ; 
nor  did  she  affect  to  deny  that  she  loved  Gri- 
fone.  It  made  no  difference.  She  was  luminously 
mild,  used  her  hands  like  a  Madonna  in  a  picture, 
was  more  lovely  and  winning  in  the  motions  of 
her  little  head,  the  wistful  deeps  and  darks  of  her 
eyes,  the  pathetic  curve  of  her  mouth,  than  any 
Madonna  short  of  Lionardo's.     Grifone  threw  up 


220  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

his  arms ;  such  a  pass  confounded  him ;  he  had 
no  tools  to  pick  this  sort  of  lock.  Oh,  but  the 
thing  was  impossible !  Two  years'  longing,  the 
husband  dead  —  why,  they  might  marry,  even,  if 
she  would.  Perhaps  that  was  what  she  needed  ? 
If  so,  he  would  risk  his  life  in  the  city  again  to  find 
a  priest.     But,  think  of  it,  formalities  at  this  hour ! 

Molly  smiled  and  blushed ;  she  was  sorry  for 
her  friend  and  would  have  consoled  him  if  she 
could ;  but  the  thing  was  so  obvious.  Did  not 
Grifone  see  ? 

Grifone  did  not  see;  he  tore  his  hair,  he 
threatened,  prayed,  raved,  commanded,  coaxed, 
swore  by  God  and  the  Devil,  clung  to  her  knees 
— useless! 

"  Dear  friend,"  she  said,  and  stroked  his  hot 
hair,  "  you  have  served  me  well.  Never  serve  me 
now  so  ill." 

She  beat  him.  From  that  moment,  when  love 
was  dead,  he  began  to  hate  her.  She  was  safe 
from  what  she  feared.  Everything  he  might 
have  waived  but  that,  a  clean  blow  at  his  own 
conceit.     The  end  was  near. 

Their  colloquy,  so  frenzied  on  his  part,  so  staid 
and  generous  at  once  on  hers,  was  barely  over 
before  the  hum  of  many  voices  crept  upon  them, 
a  slow,  murmurous  advance,  out  of  which,  as  the 
hordes  drew  near,  one  or  two  sharp  cries  —  "  Seek, 
seek  ! '  "  Death  to  the  traitor!  " —  threw  up  like 
the  hastier  wave-crests  in  a  racing  tide.  Again 
they  heard  (and  now  more  clearly),  "  Evviva 
Madonna !  La  Madonna  di  Nona ! "  and  then 
(more  ominous  than  all)  a  cry  for  Cesare  Borgia : 
—  "Chiesa!  Chiesa!" 


THE   DUCHESS  OF   NONA  221 

At  this  last  Grifone,  who  had  been  biting  his 
fingers  shrewdly,  wrung  a  nail  apart  till  the  blood 
came.  His  was  the  desperate  caught  face  of  a 
stoat  in  a  trap. 

"  What  is  this  crying  without  ?  "  said  Molly  in 
a  hush. 

"  Pest !  I  must  find  out,"  said  Grifone. 

He  climbed  to  a  high  window  and  looked  down 
into  the  moonlight.  "  The  Nonesi  in  force.  Ce- 
sare  Borgia  and  the  troops.  Hist !  He  is  going 
to  speak  to  them ;  they  are  holding  him  up."  He 
strained  to  listen  —  and  it  seems  that  he  heard. 

"  Citizens,"  said  the  Borgia,  in  fact,  "  I  pledge 
you  my  sacred  word  that  the  Duchess  shall  be 
delivered  to  you  whole  and  in  honour.  She  shall 
be  in  the  Palace  within  an  hour.  The  Secretary 
who  has  her  there,  who  stabbed  his  master  and  (as 
I  learn  from  Milan)  hatched  all  the  plot,  must  be 
left  to  me.  Madonna  Maria  saved  my  life  at  the 
peril  of  her  own.  She  has  no  more  devoted  ser- 
vant than  I  am.     Trust  me  to  prove  it." 

"Chiesa!  Chiesa!  Madonna!  Heed  the  Duke!" 
cried  the  mob.  And  then,  "  Let  the  Duke  go  up 
and  win  us  our  lady." 

"  That  he  shall  never  do,"  said  Grifone,  and 
came  down  from  the  window. 

Molly,  seeing  the  cunning  in  his  eyes,  backed 
to  the  wall. 

Time  does  not  serve,  and  pity  forbids,  that  I 
should  dwell  upon  this  misery.  What  she  may 
have  wailed,  what  he  withstood  who  loved  her 
once,  I  have  no  care  to  set  down  at  large.  He 
strangled  her  with  cruel,  vivacious  hands,  and 
then  (since  time  had  pressed,  and  all  his  passion 


222  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

not  been  pent  in  one  wicked  place)  fell  to 
kissing  the  flouted  clay.  Getting  up  from  this 
tribute,  he  was  faced  by  Cesare  Borgia  and  his 
men  ;  by  Cesare  who,  used  to  such  stratagems  as 
this  of  late,  had  had  the  whole  story  out  of 
Ludovic  at  Milan,  and  forestalled  Nona  by  buy- 
ing up  the  troop  of  "  Centaurs "  before  ever  he 
entered  the  city.  Thus  had  Amilcare  been  sold 
by  his  own  purchase,  and  thus  Grifone  griped 
in  his  own  springe.  Cesare  found  him,  I  say, 
and  Grifone  knew  in  the  first  crossing  of  their 
eyes  that  his  hour  had  come. 

He  bore  it  without  a  wink,  and  lucky  he  might 
think  it  that  for  Cesare  also  the  time  was  short. 
He  was  sooner  dead  than  he  dared  to  hope,  and 
died  cursing  the  name  of  Borgia.  But  that  was 
a  seasoned  name. 

"  The  populace  is  on  fire,  Highness,"  reported  a 
breathed  captain.  "  It  clamours  for  the  Duchess 
of  Nona.  We  can  hardly  hold  them  much  longer, 
strong  as  we  are.  We  must  show  her,  though 
I  perceive  that  her  Excellency  has  fainted." 

"  She  is  dead,  man,"  said  Cesare  shortly, 
wiping  his  pair  of  daggers. 

"It   is    a   pity,    Highness.      Ma /"      He 

shrugged  the  end  to  his  period. 

Cesare  looked  at  the  girl,  and  shrugged  in  his 
turn. 

"  Luckily  it  is  dark.  We  must  play  them  that 
trick  they  played  on  Borgo  San  Domino.  She 
must  be  put  in  a  litter,  and  at  the  palace  see  to 
it  that  the  lights  are  behind  her  before  ever  you 
set  her  up  in  the  window.  Do  what  you  can  for 
us,  Ercole." 


THE   DUCHESS  OF   NONA  223 

They  worked  their  best  to  compose  that  pitiful 
dead.  She  had  suffered  much,  and  showed  it. 
Her  wide  eyes  were  horrible.  And  there  was 
little  time  for  more  than  to  order  her  dress  and 
neck-jewels,  and  to  smooth  out  her  brown  hair. 

"  H'm,"  said  Cesare,  "you  have  made  little  of 
it;  but  at  a  distance  it  may  serve  our  turn  until 
the  troops  arrive.  Is  the  litter  below?  Good. 
Avanti  !  " 

The  church  bells  rang  all  night,  and  all  night 
the  Piazza  Grande  was  alive,  a  flickering  field 
of  torches  and  passing  and  repassing  throngs. 
"  Evviva  Madonna!  Hail,  Duchess  of  Nona!" 
were  the  cries  they  gave.  And  above,  at  an 
arched  window,  haloed  by  candle-light,  the  star- 
ing lady  of  the  land,  stiffened  and  relaxed,  played 
out  the  last  functions  of  her  generous  body,  in 
return  for  the  people's  acclamation. 

Bianca  Maria,  Queen  of  the  Romans  by  virtue 
of  proxy  and  the  Sacrament,  spurred  into  the 
city  of  Nona  next  noon  at  the  head  of  a  plumed 
escort.  There,  at  the  fatal  window,  she  saw  the 
whole  truth  in  a  flash. 

"  O  lasso !  Her  third  husband  was  her  last, 
I  see,"  she  said,  and  bit  her  lip  to  sting  the  tears 
back. 

"  Majesty,"  said  Cesare,  hat  in  hand  at  her  stir- 
rup, "  it  is  not  quite  so.  Grifone  was  not  quick 
enough  for  the  other  fellow.  Messer  Death  is 
actually  her  second  husband." 

"  Now  I  have  something  for  which  to  thank  our 
Lord  God,"  said  Bianca  Maria.  "  Let  her  be  de- 
cently buried,  but  not  here." 

It  was,  however,  explained  that  for  reasons  of 


224  LITTLE   NOVELS   OF   ITALY 

policy  the  Duchess  of  Nona  must  share  tombs 
with  the  Duke.  Serviceable  in  death  as  in  life, 
there  where  she  was  marketed  lies  her  fragrant 
dust;  fragrant  now,  I  hope,  since  all  the  passion  is 
out. 

I  almost  despair  of  winning  your  applause  for 
poor  Molly  Lovel,  yet  will  add  this  finally  in  her 
justification.  Women  are  most  loved  when  they 
are  lovely,  most  lovely  when  they  are  meek. 
This  is  not  to  say  that  they  will  be  worthily  loved 
or  loyally:  there  are  two  sides  to  a  bargain. 
Yet  this  one  thing  more :  they  are  neither  meek 
nor  lovely  unless  they  love.  And  since  Molly 
Lovel,  on  my  showing,  was  both  in  a  superlative 
degree,  it  follows  that  she  must  have  loved  much. 
She  was  ill  repaid  while  she  lived;  let  now  that 
measure  be  meted  her  which  was  accorded  an- 
other Molly,  whose  surname  was  Magdalene. 


MESSER   CINO    AND    THE    LIVE 

COAL 


I 

It  is  not  generally  known  that  the  learned  Aris- 
totle once  spent  the  night  in  a  basket  dangled 
midway  betwixt  attic  and  basement  of  a  castle; 
nor  that,  having  suffered  himself  to  be  saddled  for 
the  business,  he  went  on  all-fours,  ambling  round 
the  terrace-walk  with  a  lady  on  his  back,  a  lady 
who,  it  is  said,  plied  the  whip  with  more  hearti- 
ness than  humanity.  But  there  seems  no  doubt 
of  the  fact.  The  name  of  the  lady  (she  was 
Countess  of  Cyprus),  the  time  of  the  escapade, 
which  was  upon  the  sage's  return  from  India  in 
the  train  of  the  triumphant  Alexander  —  these 
and  many  other  particulars  are  at  hand.  The 
story  does  not  lack  of  detail,  though  it  is  note- 
worthy that  Petrarch,  in  his  "  Trionfo  d'Amore," 
decently  veils  the  victim  in  a  periphrasis.  "  Quell' 
e'l  gran  Greco" — there  is  the  great  Grecian, 
says  he,  and  leaves  you  to  choose  between  the 
Stagyrite,  Philip  of  Macedon,  and  Theseus.  The 
painters,  however,  have  had  no  mercy  upon  him. 
I  remember  him  in  a  pageant  at  Siena,  in  a  straw 
hat,  with  his  mouth  full  of  grass ;  the  lady  rides 
him   in    the    mannish   way.      In  pictures   he    is 

Q  225 


226  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

always  doting,  humbled  to  the  dust  or  cradled  in 
his  basket,  when  he  is  not  showing  his  paces 
on  the  lawn.  By  all  accounts  it  was  a  bad  case 
of  green-sickness,  as  such  late  cases  are.  You 
are  to  understand  that  he  refused  all  nourish- 
ment, took  delight  in  no  manner  of  books,  could 
not  be  stayed  by  the  nicest  problems  of  Physical 
Science  —  such  as  whether  the  beaver  does  indeed 
catch  fish  with  his  tail,  the  truth  concerning  the 
eyesight  of  the  lynxes  of  Bceotia,  or  what  gave 
the  partridge  such  a  reputation  for  heedless  gal- 
lantry. But  it  would  be  unprofitable  to  inquire 
into  all  this ;  Aristotle  was  not  the  first  enam- 
oured sage  in  history,  nor  was  he  the  last.  And 
where  he  bowed  his  laborious  front  it  was  to 
be  hoped  that  Messer  Cino  of  Pistoja  might  do 
the  like.  It  is  of  him  that  I  am  to  speak.  The 
story  is  of  Selvaggia  Vergiolesi,  the  beautiful 
romp,  and  of  Messer  Guittoncino  de'  Sigibuldi, 
that  most  eminent  jurist,  familiarly  known  as  Cino 
da  Pistoja  in  the  affectionate  phrasing  of  his 
native  town. 

Love-making  was  the  mode  in  his  day  (which 
was  also  Dante's),  but  Master  Cino  had  been  all 
for  the  Civil  Law.  The  Digest,  the  Pandects,  the 
Institutes  of  Gaius  and  what  not,  had  given  him 
a  bent  back  before  his  time,  so  that  he  walked 
among  the  Pistolese  beauties  with  his  eyes  on  the 
ground  and  his  hands  knotted  behind  his  decent 
robe.  Love  might  have  made  him  fatter,  yet  he 
throve  upon  his  arid  food ;  he  sat  in  an  important 
chair  in  his  University;  he  had  lectured  at 
Bologna  (hive  of  sucking  Archdeacons),  at  Siena, 
at   Perugia.      Should  he  prosper,   he  looked  to 


MESSER   CINO   AND   THE    LIVE   COAL        227 

Florence  for  his  next  jump.  As  little  as  he  could 
contrive  was  he  for  Pope  or  Emperor,  Black  or 
White,  Farinata  or  Cerchi ;  banishment  came  that 
road.  His  friend  Dante  was  footsore  with  exile, 
halfway  over  Apennine  by  this  time  ;  Cino  knew 
that  for  him  also  the  treading  was  very  delicate. 
Constitutionally  he  was  Ghibelline  with  his  friend 
Dante,  and  such  politics  went  well  in  Pistoja  for 
the  moment.  But  who  could  tell?  The  next 
turn  of  the  wheel  might  bring  the  Pope  round ; 
Pistoja  might  go  Black  (as  indeed  she  did  in  more 
senses  than  one),  and  pray  where  would  be  his 
Assessorship  of  Civil  Causes,  where  his  solemn 
chair,  where  his  title  to  doffing  of  caps  and  a 
chief  seat  at  feasts  ?  Cino,  meditating  these 
things  over  his  morning  sop  and  wine,  rubbed 
his  chin  sore  and  determined  to  take  a  wife.  His 
family  was  respectable,  but  Ghibelline  ;  his  means 
were  happy ;  his  abilities  known  to  others  as  well 
as  to  himself.  Good !  He  would  marry  a  sober 
Guelphish  virgin,  and  establish  a  position  to 
face  both  the  windy  quarters.  It  was  when  his 
negotiations  to  this  end  had  reached  maturity, 
when  the  contract  for  his  espousals  with  the  hon- 
ourable lady,  Monna  Margherita  degli  Ughi,  had 
actually  been  signed,  that  Messer  Cino  of  Pistoja 
was  late  for  his  class,  got  cold  feet,  and  turned 
poet. 


II 

It  was  a  strange  hour  when  Love  leaped  the 
heart  of  Cino,  that  staid  jurisconsult,  to  send  him 
reeling  up  the  sunny  side  of  the  piazza  heedless 
of  his  friends  or  his  enemies.  To  his  dying  day 
he  could  not  have  told  you  how  it  came  upon 
him.  Being  a  man  of  slow  utterance  and  of  a 
mind  necessarily  bent  towards  the  concrete,  all 
he  could  confess  to  himself  throughout  the  ter- 
rible business  was,  that  there  had  been  a  cata- 
clysm. He  remembered  the  coldness  of  his  feet; 
cold  feet  in  mid-April  —  something  like  a  cata- 
clysm !  As  he  turned  it  over  and  over  in  his 
mind  a  lady  recurred  with  the  persistence  of  a 
refrain  in  a  ballad ;  and  words,  quite  unaccus- 
tomed words,  tripped  over  his  tongue  to  meet 
her.  What  a  lovely  vision  she  had  made !  — "Una 
donzella  non  con  uman'  volto  (a  gentle  lady  not 
of  human  look)."  Well,  what  next  ?  Ah,  some- 
thing about  "  Amor,  che  ha  la  mia  virtu  tolto 
(Love  that  has  reft  me  of  my  manly  will)."  Then 
should  come  amore,  and  of  course  cuore,  and  disib, 
and  ancli  io!  This  was  very  new;  it  was  also 
very  strange  what  a  fascination  he  found  in  his 
phrenetic  exercises.  Rhyme,  now:  he  had  called 
it  often  enough  a  jingle  of  endings ;  it  were  more 
true  to  say  that  it  was  a  jingle  of  mendings,  for 
it  certainly  soothed  him.  He  was  making  a  god- 
dess in  his  own  image ;  poetry  —  Santa  Cecilia  ! 

228 


MESSER   CINO   AND  THE   LIVE   COAL        229 

he  was  a  poet,  like  his  friend  Dante,  like  that 
supercilious  young  tomb-walker  Guido  Caval- 
canti.  A  poet  he  undoubtedly  became;  and  if 
his  feet  were  cold  his  heart  was  on  fire. 

What  happened  was  this,  so  far  as  I  am  in- 
formed. At  the  north  angle  of  the  church  of 
San  Giovanni  fuori  Civitas  there  is  a  narrow 
lane,  so  dark  that  at  very  noon  no  sunlight  comes 
in  but  upon  blue  bars  of  dust  slant-wise  overhead. 
This  lay  upon  Cino's  daily  beat  from  his  lodgings 
to  the  Podesta ; *  and  here  it  was  that  he  met 
Selvaggia  Vergiolesi. 

She  was  one  of  three  young  girls  walking  hand 
in  hand  up  the  alley  on  their  way  from  early  mass, 
the  tallest  where  all  were  tall,  and,  as  it  seemed  to 
him  when  he  dreamed  of  it,  astonishingly  beauti- 
ful. Though  they  were  very  young,  they  were 
ladies  of  rank;  their  heads  were  high  and 
crowned,  their  gowns  of  figured  brocade;  they 
had  chains  round  their  necks,  and  each  a  jewel 
on  her  forehead  ;  by  chains  also  swung  their  little 
mass-books  in  silver  covers.  Cino  knew  them 
well  enough  by  sight.  Their  names  were  Sel- 
vaggia di  Filippo  Vergiolesi,  Guglielmotta  Aspra- 
monte,  Nicoletta  della  Torre.  So  at  least  he  had 
always  believed  ;  but  now,  but  now !  A  beam  of 
gold  dust  shot  down  upon  the  central  head.  This 
was  Aglaia,  fairest  of  the  three  Graces ;  and  the 
other  two  were  Euphrosyne  and  Thaleia,  her  hand- 
maids. Thus  it  struck  Cino,  heart  and  head,  at 
this  sublime  moment  of  his  drab-coloured  life. 


1  So  the  Pistolesi  described  at  once  their  government  and  the 
seat  of  it. 


230  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

Selvaggia's  hair  was  brown,  gold-shot  of  its 
own  virtue.  In  and  out  of  it  was  threaded  a  fine 
gold  chain ;  behind,  it  was  of  course  plaited  in  a 
long  twist,  plaited  and  bound  up  in  cloth  of  gold 
till  it  looked  as  hard  as  a  bull's  tail.  Her  dress 
was  all  of  formal  brocade,  green  and  white,  to  her 
feet.  It  was  cut  square  at  the  neck;  and  from 
that  square  her  throat,  dazzlingly  white,  shot  up  as 
stiff  as  a  stalk  which  should  find  in  her  face  its 
delicate  flower.  She  was  not  very  rosy,  save  about 
the  lips ;  her  eyes  were  grey,  inclined  to  be  green, 
the  lashes  black.  As  for  her  shape,  sumptuous  as 
her  dress  was,  stiff  and  straight  and  severe,  I  ask 
you  to  believe  that  she  had  grace  to  fill  it  with 
life,  to  move  at  ease  in  it,  to  press  it  into  soft  and 
rounded  lines.  Her  linked  companions  also  were 
beauties  of  their  day  —  that  sleek  and  sleepy  Nico- 
letta,  that  ruddy  Guglielmotta;  but  they  seemed 
to  cower  in  their  rigid  clothes,  and  they  were  as 
nothing  to  Cino. 

The  lane  was  so  narrow  that  only  three  could 
pass  abreast ;  it  was  abreast  these  three  were  com- 
ing, as  Cino  saw.  On  a  sudden  his  heart  began 
to  knock  at  his  ribs ;  that  was  when  the  light  fell 
aslant  upon  the  maid.  He  could  no  more  have 
taken  his  eyes  off  Selvaggia  than  he  could  have 
climbed  up  the  dusty  wall  to  avoid  her.  Lo,  here 
is  one  stronger  than  I !  At  the  next  moment  the 
three  young  rogues  were  about  him,  their  knitted 
hands  a  fence,  —  but  the  eyes  of  Selvaggia !  Ter- 
rible twin-fires,  he  thought,  such  as  men  light  in 
the  desert  to  scare  the  beasts  away  while  they 
sleep,  or  (as  he  afterwards  improved  it  for  his 
need)  like  the  flaming  sword  of  the  Archangel, 


MESSER   CINO   AND   THE    LIVE   COAL        231 

which  declared  and  yet  forbade  Eden  to  Adam 
and  his  wife. 

Selvaggia,  in  truth,  though  she  had  fourteen 
years  behind  her,  was  a  romp  when  no  one  was 
looking.  There  were  three  brothers  at  home,  but 
no  mother ;  she  was  half  a  boy  for  all  her  straight 
gown.  To  embarrass  this  demure  professor,  to 
presume  upon  her  sex  while  discarding  it,  was  a 
great  joke  after  a  tediously  droned  mass  at  San 
Jacopo.  Nicoletta  would  have  made  room,  even 
the  hardier  Guglielmotta  drew  back;  but  that 
wicked  Selvaggia  pinched  their  fingers  so  that 
they  could  not  escape.  All  this  time  Messer 
Cino  had  his  eyes  rooted  in  Selvaggia's,  reading 
her  as  if  she  were  a  portent.  She  endured  very 
well  what  she  took  to  be  the  vacancy  of  confusion 
in  a  shy  recluse. 

"  Well,  Messer  Cino,  what  will  you  do  ? "  said 
she,  bubbling  with  mischief. 

"  Oh,  Madonna,  can  you  ask  ?  "  he  replied,  and 
clasped  his  hands. 

"  But  you  see  that  I  do  ask." 

"  I  would  stop  here  all  the  day  if  I  might,"  said 
Messer  Cino,  with  a  look  by  no  means  vacant. 
Whereupon  she  let  him  through  that  minute  and 
ran  away  blushing.  More  than  once  or  twice  she 
encountered  him  there,  but  she  never  tried  to 
pen  him  back  again. 

Little  Monna  Selvaggia  learned  that  you  can- 
not always  put  out  the  fire  which  you  have  kindled. 
The  fire  set  blazing  by  those  lit  green  swords  of 
hers  was  in  the  heart  of  an  Assessor  of  Civil 
Causes,  a  brazier  with  only  too  good  a  draught. 
For   love   in   love-learned   Tuscany  was  then  a 


232  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

roaring  wind ;  it  came  rhythmically  and  set  the 
glowing  mass  beating  like  the  sestett  of  a  sonnet. 
One  lived  in  numbers  in  those  days ;  numbers 
always  came.  You  sonnetteered  upon  the  battle- 
field, in  the  pulpit,  on  the  Bench,  at  the  Bar. 
Throughout  the  moil  of  his  day's  work  at  the 
Podesta  those  clinging  long  words,  in  themselves 
inspiration,  disio,  piacere,  vaghezza,  gentilezza,  di- 
letto,  affetto,  beautiful  twins  that  go  ever  embraced, 
wailed  in  poor  Cino's  ears,  and  insensibly  shaped 
themselves  coherent.  He  thought  they  were  like 
mirrors,  so  placed  that  each  gave  a  look  of  Sel- 
vaggia.  Before  the  end  of  the  day  he  had  the 
whole  of  her  in  a  sonnet  which,  if  it  were  as  good 
as  it  was  comfortable,  should  needs  (he  thought) 
be  excellent.  The  thrill  which  marked  achieve- 
ment sent  the  blood  to  his  head;  this  time  he 
gloried  in  cold  feet.  He  wrote  his  sonnet  out 
fair  upon  vellum  in  a  hand  no  scribe  at  the  Papal 
Court  could  have  bettered,  rolled  it,  tied  it  with 
green  and  white  silk  (her  colours,  colours  of  the 
hawthorn  hedge ! ),  and  went  out  into  the  streets 
at  the  falling-in  of  the  day  to  deliver  it. 

The  Palazzo  Vergiolesi  lay  over  by  the  church 
of  San  Francesco  al  Prato,  just  where  the  Via 
San  Prospero  debouches  into  that  green  place. 
Like  all  Tuscan  palaces  it  was  more  fortress  than 
house,  a  dark  square  box  of  masonry  with  a 
machicollated  lid ;  and  separate  from  it,  but  ap- 
purtenant, had  a  most  grim  tower  with  a  slit  or 
two  halfway  up  for  all  its  windows.  Here,  under 
the  great  escutcheon  of  the  Vergiolesi,  Cino  de- 
livered his  missive.  The  porter  took  it  with  a 
bow    so    gracious    that    the    poet    was    bold    to 


MESSER  CINO   AND  THE   LIVE  COAL        233 

ask  whether  the  Lady  Selvaggia  was  actually 
within. 

"Yes,  surely,  Messere,"  said  the  man,  "and 
moreover  in  the  kitchen  with  the  cookmaids.  For 
there  is  a  cake-making  on  hand,  and  she  is  never 
far  away  from  that  business." 

Cino  was  ravished  by  this  instance  of  divine 
humiliation  ;  so  might  Apollo  have  bowed  in  the 
house  of  Admetus,  so  Israel  have  kept  sheep  for 
Rachel's  sake.  He  walked  away  in  most  exalted 
mood,  his  feet  no  longer  cold.  This  was  a  great 
day  for  him,  when  he  could  see  a  new  heaven  and 
a  new  earth. 

"  Now  I  too  have  been  in  Arcady  !  "  he  thought 
to  himself,  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  "  I  will  send  a 
copy  of  my  sonnet  to  Dante  Alighieri  by  a  sure 
hand.  He  should  be  at  Bologna  by  this."  And 
he  did. 

Madonna  Selvaggia,  her  sleeves  rolled  up,  a 
great  bib  all  about  her  pretty  person,  and  her 
mouth  in  a  fine  mess  of  sugar  and  crumbs,  re- 
ceived her  tribute  sitting  on  the  long  kitchen- 
table.  It  should  have  touched,  it  might  have 
tickled,  but  it  simply  confused  her.  The  maids 
peeped  over  her  shoulder  as  she  read,  in  ecstasy 
that  Madonna  should  have  a  lover  and  a  poet  of 
her  own.  Selvaggia  filched  another  handful  of 
sugar  and  crumbs,  and  twiddled  her  sonnet  while 
she  wondered  what  on  earth  she  should  do  with 
it.  Her  fine  brows  met  each  other  over  the  puz- 
zle, so  clearly  case  for  a  confidence.  Gianbattista, 
her  youngest  brother,  was  her  bosom  friend  ;  but 
he  was  away,  she  knew,  riding  to  Pisa  with  their 
father.    Next  to  him  ranked  Nicoletta;  she  would 


234  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

be  at  mass  to-morrow  —  that  would  do.  Mean- 
time the  cook  produced  a  most  triumphal  cake  hot 
and  hot,  and  the  transports  of  poor  Messer  Cino 
were  forgotten. 

Dante's  reply  to  his  copy  was  so  characteristic 
that  I  must  anticipate  a  little  to  speak  of  it.  He 
confined  himself  almost  entirely  to  technicalities, 
strongly  objecting  to  the  sestett  with  its  three 
rhymes  in  the  middle,  upon  which  Cino  had 
prided  himself  in  no  small  degree.  The  only 
thing  he  seemed  to  care  for  was  the  tenth  line, 
"  A  dolce  morte  sotto  dolce  inganno,"  which  you 
may  render,  if  you  like,  "  To  a  sweet  death  under 
so  sweet  deceit " ;  but  he  said  there  were  too 
many  "  o's  "  in  it.  "  As  to  the  subject  of  your 
poem,"  he  wrote  in  a  postscript,  "  love  is  a  thing 
of  so  terrible  a  nature  that  not  lightly  is  it  to  be 
entered,  since  it  cannot  be  lightly  left ;  and,  seeing 
the  latter  affair  is  much  out  of  a  man's  power,  he 
should  be  wary  with  the  former,  wherein  at  pres- 
ent he  would  appear  to  have  some  discretion, 
though  not  very  much."  This  was  chilly  com- 
fort ;  but  by  the  time  it  reached  him  Cino  was  be- 
yond the  assault  of  chills. 

Equally  interesting  should  it  be  to  record  the 
conversation  of  Monna  Selvaggia  with  her  dis- 
creet friend  Nicoletta ;  yet  I  cannot  record  every- 
thing. Nicoletta  had  a  lover  of  her  own,  a  most 
proper  poet,  who  had  got  far  beyond  the  mere  acci- 
dence of  the  science  where  Cino  was  fumbling  now; 
you  might  say  that  he  was  at  theory.  Nicoletta, 
moreover,  was  sixteen  years  old,  a  marriageable 
age,  an  age  indeed  at  which  not  to  have  a  lover 
would  have  been  a  disgrace.      She  had  had  son- 


MESSER  CINO  AND  THE   LIVE  COAL        235 

nets  and  canzoni  addressed  to  her  since  she  was 
twelve ;  but  then  she  had  two  elder  sisters  and 
only  one  brother  —  a  monk  !  This  made  a  vast 
difference.  The  upshot  was  that  when  Cino  met 
the  two  ladies  at  the  charmed  spot  of  yester- 
day's encounter  he  uncovered  before  them  and 
stood  with  folded  hands,  as  if  at  his  prayers. 
Consequently  he  missed  the  very  pretty  air  of 
consciousness  with  which  Selvaggia  passed  him 
by,  the  heightened  colour  of  her,  the  lowered 
eyes  and  restless  ringers.  Also  he  missed  Nico- 
letta's  demure  shot  askance,  demure  but  critical, 
as  became  an  expert.  A  sonnet  and  a  bunch  of 
red  anemones  went  to  the  Palazzo  Vergiolesi  that 
evening ;  thenceforth  it  rained  sonnets  till  poor 
little  Selvaggia  ran  near  losing  her  five  wits.  It 
rained  sonnets,  I  say,  until  the  Cancellieri  brought 
out  the  black  Guelphs  in  a  swarm.  Then  it 
rained  blood,  and  the  Vergiolesi  fled  one  cloudy 
night  to  Pitecchio,  their  stronghold  in  the  Apen- 
nine.  For  Messer  Cino,  it  behoved  him  also  to 
advise  seriously  about  his  position.  To  sonnet- 
teer  is  very  well,  but  a  lover,  to  say  nothing  of  a 
jurisconsult,  must  live ;  he  cannot  have  his  throat 
cut  if  there  is  a  way  out. 

There  was  a  very  simple  way  out  which  he 
took.  He  went  down  to  Lucca  in  the  plain  and 
married  his  Margherita  degli  Ughi.  With  her 
Guelph  connections  he  felt  himself  safer.  He  be- 
stowed his  wife  in  the  keeping  of  her  people  for 
the  time,  bought  himself  a  horse,  and  rode  up  to 
Pitecchio  among  the  green  maize,  the  olive-yards, 
and  sprouting  vines  to  claim  asylum  from  Filippo, 
and  to  see  once  more  the  beautiful  young 
Selvaggia. 


Ill 

There  is  hardly  a  sonnet,  there  are  certainly 
neither  ballate,  canzoni,  nor  capitoli  which  do  not 
contain  some  reference  to  Monna  Selvaggia's  fine 
eyes,  and  always  to  the  same  tune.  They  scorch 
him,  they  beacon  him,  they  flash  out  upon  him  in 
the  dark,  so  that  he  falls  prone  as  Saul  (who  got 
up  with  a  new  name  and  an  honourable  addition) ; 
they  are  lodestones,  swords,  lamps,  torches,  fires, 
fixed  and  ambulatory  stars,  the  sun,  the  moon, 
candles.  They  hold  lurking  a  thief  to  prey  upon 
the  vitals  of  Cino ;  they  are  traitors,  cruel  lances  ; 
they  kill  him  by  stabbing  day  after  day.  You  can 
picture  the  high-spirited  young  lady  from  his  book 
—  her  noble  bearing,  her  proud  head,  her  un- 
flinching regard,  again  the  sparks  in  her  grey- 
green  eyes,  and  so  on.  He  plays  upon  hex  forte 
nome,  her  dreadful  name  of  Selvaggia;  so  she 
comes  to  be  Ferezza  itself.  "  Tanto  e  altiera,"  he 
says,  so  haughtily  she  goes  that  love  sets  him 
shaking;  but,  kind  or  cruel,  it  is  all  one  to  the 
enamoured  Master  Cino ;  for  even  if  she  "  un 
pochettin  sorride  (light  him  a  little  smile),"  it 
melts  him  as  sun  melts  snow.  In  any  case,  there- 
fore, he  must  go,  like  Dante's  cranes,  trailing  his 
woes.  It  appears  that  she  had  very  little  mercy 
upon  him ;  for  all  that  in  one  place  he  records  that 
she  was  "  of  all  sweet  sport  and  solace  amorous," 

236 


MESSER  CINO  AND  THE  LIVE   COAL        237 

in  many  more  than  one  he  complains  of  her 
bringing  him  to  "  death  and  derision,"  of  her 
being  in  a  royal  rage  with  her  poet.  At  last  he 
cries  out  for  Pity  to  become  incarnate  and  vest 
his  lady  in  her  own  robe.  It  may  be  that  he 
loved  his  misery;  he  is  always  on  the  point  of 
dying,  but,  like  the  swan,  he  was  careful  to  set  it 
to  music  first.  Selvaggia,  in  fact,  laughed  at  him 
(he  turned  once  to  call  her  a  Jew  for  that)  egged 
on  as  she  was  by  her  brother  and  her  own  viva- 
cious habit.  She  had  no  Nicoletta  at  Pitecchio,  no 
mother  anywhere,  and  a  scheming  father  too  busy 
to  be  anything  but  shrugging  towards  poets.  She 
accepted  his  rhymes  (she  would  probably  have 
been  scared  if  they  ceased),  his  services,  his 
lowered  looks,  his  bent  knee ;  and  then  she 
tripped  away  with  an  arm  round  Gianbattista's 
neck  to  laugh  at  all  these  praiseworthy  attentions. 
As  for  Cino,  Selvaggia  was  become  his  religion, 
and  his  rhyming  her  reasonable  service.  His 
goddess  may  have  been  as  thirsty  as  the  Scythian 
Artemis ;  may  be  that  she  asked  blood  and  stripes 
of  her  devotees.  All  this  may  well  be ;  for,  by  the 
Lord,  did  she  not  have  them  ? 

Ridolfo  and  Ugolino  Vergiolesi,  the  two  elder 
brothers  of  Selvaggia,  had  stayed  behind  in  Pistoja 
to  share  the  fighting  in  the  streets.  They  had 
plenty  of  it,  given  and  received.  Ridolfo  had  his 
head  cut  open,  Ugolino  went  near  to  losing  his 
sword  arm ;  but  in  spite  of  these  heroic  suffer- 
ances the  detested  Cancellieri  became  masters  of 
the  city,  and  the  chequer-board  flag  floated  over 
the  Podesta.  Pistoja  was  now  no  place  for  a 
Ghibelline.     So  the  two  young  men  rode  up  to 


238  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

the  hill-fortress,  battered,  but  in  high  spirits. 
Selvaggia  flew  down  the  cypress-walk  to  meet 
them  ;  they  were  brought  in  like  wounded  heroes. 
That  was  a  bad  day's  work  for  Messer  Cino  the 
amorist;  Apollo  and  the  Muses  limped  in  rags, 
and  Mars  was  the  only  God  worth  thinking  about, 
except  on  Sundays. 

Ridolfo,  with  his  broken  head-piece,  was  a  bluff 
youth,  broad-shouldered,  square-jawed,  a  great 
eater,  grimly  silent  for  the  most  part.  Ugolino 
had  a  trenchant  humour  of  the  Italian  sort. 
What  this  may  be  is  best  exampled  by  our  harle- 
quinades, in  which  very  much  of  Boccaccio's  bent 
still  survives.  You  must  have  a  man  drubbed  if 
you  want  to  laugh,  and  do  your  rogueries  with  a 
pleasant  grin  if  you  are  inclined  to  heroism. 
Ridolfo,  reading  Selvaggia's  sheaf  of  rhymes  that 
night,  was  for  running  Master  Cino  through  the 
body,  jurist  or  no  jurist;  but  Ugolino  saw  his  way 
to  a  jest  of  the  most  excellent  quality,  and  pre- 
vailed. He  was  much  struck  by  the  poet's  pre- 
occupation with  his  sister's  eyes. 

"Candles,  are  they,"  he  chuckled,  "torches, 
fires,  suns,  moons,  and  stars?  You  seem  to 
have  scorched  this  rhymester,  Vaggia." 

"  He  has  frequently  told  me  so,  indeed,"  said 
Selvaggia. 

"  It  reminds  me  of  Messer  San  Giovanni  Van- 
gelista,"  Ugolino  continued,  "  who  was  made  to 
sing  rarely  by  the  touching  of  a  hot  cinder." 

Selvaggia  snatched  the  scrolls  out  of  her  broth- 
er's hand.  "  Nay,  nay,  but  wait,"  she  cried,  with 
a  gulp  of  laughter ;  "  I  have  done  that  to  Messer 
Cino,  or  can  if  I  choose."      She  turned  over  the 


MESSER  CINO   AND  THE   LIVE  COAL        239 

delicate  pen-work  in  a  hurry.  "  Here,"  she  said 
eagerly,  "  read  this !  " 

Ugolino  scampered  through  a  couple  of  qua- 
trains. "  There's  nothing  out  of  common  here," 
said  he. 

"  Go  on,  go  on,"  said  the  girl,  and  nudged  him 
to  attend. 

Ugolino  read  the  sestett :  — 

"  '  His  book  is  but  the  vesture  of  her  spirit ; 
So  too  thy  poet,  that  feels  the  living  coal 
Flame  on  his  lips  and  leap  to  song,  shall  know, 
To  whom  the  glory,  whose  the  unending  merit ; 
Nor  faltering  shall  his  utterance  be,  nor  slow 
The  mute  confession  of  his  inmost  soul.'  " 

Reading,  he  became  absorbed  in  this  fantastic, 
but  not  unhandsome  piece ;  even  Selvaggia  pond- 
ered it  with  wide  eyes  and  lips  half  parted.  It 
was  certainly  very  wonderful  that  a  man  could  say 
such  things,  she  thought.  Were  they  true? 
Could  they  be  true  of  any  one  in  the  world  — 
even  of  Beatrice  Portinari,  that  wonderful  dead 
lady  ?  She  had  never,  she  remembered,  shown 
this  particular  sonnet  to  Nicoletta.  What  would 
Nicoletta  have  said?  Pooh,  what  nonsense  it 
was,  what  arrant  nonsense  in  a  man  who  could 
carry  a  sword,  if  he  chose,  and  kill  his  enemies, 
or,  better  still,  with  his  head  outwit  them  —  that 
he  should  turn  to  pens  and  ink  and  to  fogging  a 
poor  girl !  So  Selvaggia,  not  so  Ugolino.  He 
got  up  and  whispered  to  the  scowling  Ridolfo; 
Ridolfo  nodded,  and  the  pair  of  them  went  off 
presently  together. 

Oblique  looks  on  Cino  were  the  immediate  out- 
come. He  knew  the  young  men  disliked  him,  but 


24o  LITTLE   NOVELS   OF   ITALY 

cared  little  for  that  so  long  as  they  left  him  free 
to  his  devotions.  A  brisk  little  passage,  a  rally  of 
words,  with  a  bite  in  some  of  them,  should  have 
warned  him ;  but  no,  the  stage  he  had  reached 
was  out  of  range  of  the  longest  shots. 

Said  Ugolino  at  supper:  "  Messer  Giuriscon- 
sulto,  will  you  have  a  red  pepper  ? " 

"  Thank  you,  Messere,"  replied  Cino,  "  it  is  over 
hot  for  my  tongue." 

The  huge  Ridolfo  threw  his  head  back  to  laugh. 
"  Does  a  burnt  man  dread  the  fire,  or  is  he  only 
to  be  fired  one  way  ?  Why,  man  alive,  my  sister 
has  set  a  flaming  coal  to  your  lips,  and  I  am  told 
you  burst  out  singing  instead  of  singeing." 

Cino  coloured  at  this  lunge ;  yet  his  respect  for 
the  lady  of  his  mind  was  such  that  he  could  not 
evade  it. 

"  You  take  the  language  of  metaphor,  Messere," 
said  he,  rather  stiffly,  "  to  serve  your  occasions. 
You  are  of  course  within  your  rights.  However, 
I  will  beg  leave  to  be  excused  the  red  pepper  of 
Messer  Ugolino." 

"  You  prefer  coals  ?  "  cried  Ugolino,  starting  up. 
"  Good !  you  shall  have  them." 

That  was  all ;  but  the  malign  smile  upon  the 
dark  youth's  face  gave  a  ring  to  the  words,  and 
an  omen. 

Late  that  night  Cino  was  in  his  chamber  writ- 
ing a  ballata.  His  little  oil-lamp  was  by  his  side ; 
the  words  flowed  freely  from  his  pen ;  tears  hot 
and  honest  were  in  his  eyes  as  he  felt  rather  than 
thought  his  exquisite  griefs.  Despised  and  rejected 
of  men  was  he  —  and  why?  For  the  love  of  a 
beautiful  lady.     Eh,  Mother  of  God,  but  that  was 


MESSER  CINO  AND  THE   LIVE  COAL        241 

worth  the  pain !  She  had  barely  lifted  her  eyes 
upon  him  all  that  day,  and  while  her  brothers 
gibed  had  been  at  no  concern  to  keep  straight 
her  scornful  lip.  Patience,  he  was  learning  his 
craft !     The  words  flowed  like  blood  from  a  vein. 

"  Love  struck  me  in  the  side, 
And  from  the  wound  my  soul  took  wing  and  flew 
To  Heaven,  and  all  my  pride 
Fell,  and  I  knew 
There  was  no  balm  could  stay  that  wound  so  wide." 

At  this  moment  came  a  rapping  at  his  door. 
He  went  to  open  it,  dreaming  no  harm.  There 
stood  Ridolfo  and  Ugolino  with  swords  in  their 
right  hands ;  in  his  left  Ugolino  carried  a  brazier. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Cino,  "  what  is  the  meaning 
of  this?  Will  you  break  in  upon  the  repose  of 
your  father's  guest?  And  do  you  come  armed 
against  an  unarmed  man  ? " 

The  pair  of  them,  however,  came  into  the  room, 
and  Ridolfo  locked  the  door  behind  him.  "  Look 
you,  Cino,"  said  he,  "  our  father's  guests  are  not 
our  guests,  for  our  way  is  to  choose  our  own. 
There  is  a  vast  difference  between  us,  and  it 
lies  in  this,  that  you  and  the  like  of  you  are 
word-mongers,  phrasers,  heart-strokers ;  whereas 
we,  Master  Cino,  are,  in  Scripture-language,  doers 
of  the  word,  rounding  our  phrases  with  iron,  and 
putting  in  full-stops  with  the  point  when  they  are 
needed.  And  we  do  not  stroke  girls'  hearts,  Cino, 
but  as  often  as  not  break  men's  heads." 

Cino,  for  all  his  dismay,  could  not  forbear  a 
glance  at  the  speaker's  own  damaged  pate. 
"And,  after  all,  Messer  Ridolfo,  in  that  you  do 


242  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

but  as  you   are   done   by,  and  who  will   blame 
you  ? " 

"  Hark'ee,  Master  Giurista,"  broke  in  Ugolino, 
"  we  have  come  to  prove  some  of  these  fine  words 
of  yours.  It  will  be  well  for  you  to  answer  ques- 
tions instead  of  bandying  them.  Now  did  you 
or  did  you  not  report  that  my  sister  Selvaggia 
touched  your  lips  with  a  coal  and  set  you  off 
singing  ? " 

Cino,  with  folded  arms,  bent  his  head  in  assent : 
"  I  have  said  it,  Messere." 

"  Good !  Now,  such  singing,  though  it  is  not 
to  her  taste,  might  be  very  much  to  ours.  In 
fact,  we  have  come  to  hear  it,  and  that  you  might 
be  robbed  of  all  excuse,  we  have  brought  the  key 
with  us.     Brother,  pray  blow  up  the  brazier." 

Ridolfo,  with  his  great  cheeks  like  bladders, 
blew  the  coals  to  a  white  heat.  "  Now  then,"  he 
said,  grinning  to  Ugolino,  "  now  then,  the  concert 
may  begin." 

Cino,  who  by  this  time  had  seen  what  was  in  the 
wind,  saw  also  what  his  course  must  be.  What- 
ever happened  he  could  not  allow  a  poet  to  be 
made  ridiculous.  It  was  ridiculous  to  struggle 
with  two  armed  men,  and  unseemly ;  but  suffer- 
ing was  never  ridiculous.  Patience,  therefore! 
He  anticipated  the  burly  Ridolfo,  who,  having 
done  his  bellows-work,  was  now  about  to  pin  his 
victim  from  behind. 

"  Pray  do  not  give  yourself  the  pain  to  hold  me, 
Messere,"  said  he ;  "I  am  not  the  man  to  deny 
you  your  amusement.  Do  what  you  will,  I  shall 
not  budge  from  here." 

He  stood  where  he  was  with  his  arms  crossed, 


MESSER  CINO  AND  THE   LIVE   COAL        243 

and  he  kept  his  word.  The  red  cinder  hissed 
upon  his  lips ;  he  shut  his  eyes,  he  ground  his 
teeth  together,  the  sweat  beaded  his  forehead  and 
glistened  in  his  hair.  Once  he  reeled  over,  and 
would  have  fallen  if  Ridolfo  had  not  been  there 
to  catch  him ;  but  he  did  not  sing  the  tune  they 
had  expected,  and  presently  they  let  him  alone. 
So  much  for  Italian  humour,  which,  you  will  see, 
does  not  lack  flavour.  It  was  only  the  insensate 
obtuseness  of  the  gull  which  prevented  Ugolino 
dying  of  laughter.     Ridolfo  was  annoyed. 

"  Give  me  cold  iron  to  play  with  another  time," 
he  growled ;  "  I  am  sick  of  your  monkey-tricks/' 
This  hurt  Ugolino  a  good  deal,  for  it  made  him 
feel  a  fool. 

Will  it  be  believed  that  the  infatuate  Master 
Cino  spent  the  rest  of  the  night  in  a  rapture  of 
poetry?  It  was  not  voiced  poetry,  could  never 
have  been  written  down ;  rather,  it  was  a  torrent 
of  feeling  upon  which  he  floated  out  to  heaven, 
in  which  he  bathed.  It  thrilled  through  every 
fibre  of  his  body  till  he  felt  the  wings  of  his  soul 
fluttering  madly  to  be  free.  This  was  the  very 
ecstasy  of  love,  to  suffer  the  extreme  torment  for 
the  beloved !  Ah,  he  was  smitten  deep  enough 
at  last ;  if  poetry  were  to  be  won  through  bloody 
sweat,  the  pains  of  the  rack,  the  crawling  anguish 
of  the  fire,  was  not  poetry  his  own  ?  Yes,  indeed; 
what  Dante  had  gained  through  exile  and  the 
death  of  Monna  Beatrice  was  his  for  another 
price,  the  price  of  his  own  blood.  He  forgot 
the  physical  agony  of  his  scorched  mouth,  forgot 
the  insult,  forgot  everything  but  this  ineffable 
achievement,  this  desperate  essay,  this  triumph, 


244  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

this  anointing.  Cino,  Cino,  martyr  for  Love ! 
Hail,  Cino,  crowned  with  thy  pain !  He  could 
have  held  up  his  bleeding  heart  and  worshipped 
it.  Surely  this  was  the  greatest  hour  of  his 
life. 

Before  he  left  Pitecchio,  and  that  was  before 
the  dawn  came  upon  it,  he  wrote  this  letter  to  his 
mistress. 

"  To  his  unending  Lady,  the  image  of  all  lovely 
delight,  the  Lady  Selvaggia,  Cino  the  poet,  martyr 
for  love,  wisheth  health  and  honour  with  kissing 
of  feet.  Madonna,  if  sin  it  be  to  lift  over  high  the 
eyes,  I  have  sinned  very  grievously;  and  if  to 
have  great  joy  be  assurance  of  forgiveness,  then 
am  I  twice  absolved.  Such  bliss  as  I  have  had 
in  the  contemplation  of  your  excellence  cometh 
not  to  many  men,  )ret  that  which  hath  befallen 
me  this  night  (concerning  which  your  honourable 
brothers  shall  inform  you  if  you  ask  them)  —  this 
indeed  is  to  be  blessed  of  love  so  high,  so  rarely, 
that  it  were  hard  to  believe  myself  the  recipient, 
but  for  certain  bodily  testimony  which,  I  doubt 
not,  I  shall  carry  about  me  to  my  last  hour.  I 
leave  this  house  within  a  little  while  and  go  to 
the  hermitage  of  Santa  Marcella  Pistoiese,  there  to 
pray  Almighty  God  to  make  me  worthy  of  my 
dignities  and  to  contemplate  the  divine  image  of 
you  wherewith  my  heart  is  sealed.  So  fare  you 
well !  —  The  most  abject  of  your  slaves, 

"  Cino." 

His  reason  for  giving  the  name  of  his  new 
refuge  was  an  honourable  one,  and  would  appeal 


MESSER  CINO   AND  THE  LIVE   COAL        245 

to  a  duellist.  His  flight,  though  necessary,  should 
be  robbed  of  all  appearance  of  flight;  if  they 
wanted  him  they  could  find  him.  Other  results  it 
had  —  results  which  he  could  never  have  antici- 
pated, and  which  to  have  foreseen  would  have 
made  him  choose  any  other  form  of  disgrace. 
But  this  was  out  of  the  question  ;  nothing  known 
to  Cino  or  his  philosophy  could  have  told  him  the 
future  of  his  conduct.  He  placed  his  letter  in  an 
infallible  place  and  left  Pitecchio  just  as  the 
western  sky  was  throbbing  with  warm  light. 
For  the  present  I  leave  him  on  his  way. 


IV 

The  third  act  of  the  comedy  should  open  on 
Selvaggia  in  her  bed  reading  the  letter.  Beauti- 
ful as  she  may  have  looked,  flushed  and  loose- 
haired  at  that  time,  it  is  better  to  leave  her  alone 
with  her  puzzle,  and  choose  rather  the  hour  of 
her  enlightenment.  Ridolfo  and  Ugolino  were 
booted  and  spurred,  their  hooded  hawks  were  on 
their  wrists  when  she  got  speech  of  them.  They 
were  not  very  willing  witnesses  in  a  cause  which 
now  seemed  to  tell  against  themselves.  Selvag- 
gia's  cheeks  burned  as  with  poor  Cino's  live  coal 
when  she  could  piece  together  all  the  shameful 
truth  ;  tears  brimmed  at  her  eyes,  and  these  too 
were  scalding  hot.  Selvaggia,  you  must  under- 
stand, was  a  very  good  girl,  her  only  sin  being 
none  of  her  accomplishment;  she  was  a  child  who 
looked  like  a  young  woman.  Certainly  she  could 
not  help  that,  though  all  the  practice  of  her  race 
were  against  her.  She  had  never  sought  love, 
never  felt  to  need  it,  nor  cared  to  harbour  it  when 
it  came.  Love  knocked  at  her  heart,  asking  an 
entry ;  her  heart  was  not  an  inn,  she  thought,  let 
the  wayfarer  go  on.  But  the  knocking  had  con- 
tinued till  her  ears  had  grown  to  be  soothed  by 
the  gentle  sound ;  and  now  it  had  stopped  for 
ever,  and,  Pitiful  Mother,  for  what  good  reason  ? 
Oh,  the  thing  was  horrible,  shameful,  unutterable  I 

246 


MESSER  CINO  AND  THE   LIVE   COAL        247 

She  was  crying  with  rage  ;  but  as  that  spent  itself 
a  great  warm  flood  of  genuine  sorrow  tided  over 
her,  floated  her  away :  she  cried  as  though  her 
heart  was  breaking ;  and  now  she  cried  for  pity, 
and  at  last  she  cried  for  very  love.  A  pale  ethe- 
real Cino,  finger  on  lip,  rose  before  her ;  a  halo 
burned  about  his  head  ;  he  seemed  a  saint,  he 
should  be  hers  !  Ugolino  and  Ridolfo,  helpless 
and  ashamed  before  her  outburst,  went  out 
bickering  to  their  sport;  and  Selvaggia,  wild 
as  her  name,  untaught,  with  none  to  tutor  her, 
dared  her  utmost  —  dared,  poor  girl,  beyond  her 
strength. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  that  day  Cino,  in  the 
oratory  of  his  hermitage,  getting  what  comfort  he 
could  out  of  an  angular  Madonna  frescoed  there, 
heard  a  light  step  brush  the  threshold.  The  sun, 
already  far  gone  in  the  west,  cast  on  the  white 
wall  a  shadow  whose  sight  set  his  head  spinning. 
He  turned  hastily  round.  There  at  the  door 
stood  Selvaggia  in  a  crimson  cloak  ;  for  the  rest, 
a  picture  of  the  Tragic  Muse,  so  woebegone,  so 
white,  so  ringed  with  dark  she  was. 

Cino,  on  his  feet,  muttered  a  prayer  to  himself. 
He  covered  his  scarred  mouth,  but  not  before  the 
girl  had  caught  sight  of  it.  She  set  to  wringing 
her  hands,  and  began  a  low  wailing  cry. 

"  Ah,  terrible  —  ah,  terrible !  That  I  should 
have  done  it  to  one  who  was  always  so  gentle 
with  me  and  so  patient !  Oh,  Cino  "  —  and  she 
held  out  her  hands  towards  him  — "  oh,  Cino, 
will  you  not  forgive  me  ?  Will  you  not  ?  I,  only, 
did  it ;  it  was  through  me  that  they  knew  what 
you  had  said.      Shameful  girl  that  I  am !  "      She 


248  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

covered  her  face  and  stood  sobbing  before  him. 
But  confronted  with  this  toppled  Madonna,  Cino 
was  speechless,  wholly  unprepared  by  jurispru- 
dence or  the  less  exact  science  of  love  for  such  a 
pass.  As  he  knew  himself,  he  could  have  written 
eloquently  and  done  justice  to  the  piercing 
theme  ;  but  love,  as  he  and  his  fellows  understood 
it,  had  no  spoken  language.  I  do  not  see,  how- 
ever, that  Selvaggia  is  to  be  blamed  for  being 
ignorant  of  this. 

Yet  he  had  to  say  something,  since  there  stood 
the  weeping  girl,  all  abandoned  to  her  trouble. 
"  I  beseech  you,  Madonna,"  he  was  beginning, 
when  she  suddenly  bared  her  face,  her  woe,  and 
her  beauty  to  his  astonished  eyes,  looking  passion- 
ately at  him  in  a  way  which  even  he  could  not 
misinterpret. 

"  Cino,"  she  said  brokenly,  "  I  am  a  wilful  girl, 
but  not  wicked,  ah,  no !  not  hard-hearted.  I  think 
I  did  not  understand  you ;  I  heard,  but  would  not 
hear ;  it  was  wantonness,  not  evil  in  me,  Cino. 
You  have  never  wearied  of  telling  me  your  devo- 
tion ;  is  it  too  late  to  be  thankful  ?  Now  I  am 
come  to  tell  you  what  I  should  have  said  long  be- 
fore, that  I  am  grateful,  proud  of  such  love,  that  I 
receive  it  if  still  I  may,  that  —  that "  —  her  voice 
fell  to  a  thrilled  whisper  —  "  that  I  love  you,  Cino." 
Ah,  but  she  had  no  more  courage ;  she  hid  her 
blushes  in  her  hands  and  felt  that  now  she  should 
by  rights  sink  into  the  earth. 

Judge  you,  who  know  the  theory  of  the  matter, 
if  this  were  terrible  hearing  for  Messer  Cino. 
Terrible  ?  It  was  unprecedented  hearing ;  it  was 
a  thing  which,  so  far  as  he  knew,  had  never  hap- 


MESSER  CINO  AND  THE   LIVE   COAL        249 

pened  to  a  lover  before.  That  love  should  go 
smooth,  the  lady  smile,  the  lady  love,  the  lady 
woo  ?  Monstrous !  The  lady  was  never  kind. 
Where  was  anguish  ?  Where  martyrdom  ?  Where 
poetry  and  sore  eyes  ?  Yet  stay,  was  not  such  a 
thing  in  itself  a  torment,  to  be  cut  off  your 
martyrdom  ? 

Cino  gasped  for  breath.  "  You  love  me,  Ma- 
donna ?  "  he  said.     "  You  love  me  ?  " 

Selvaggia  nodded  her  head  in  her  hands  ;  she 
felt  that  she  was  blushing  all  over  her  body. 

Cino,  at  this  new  stab,  struck  his  forehead  a  re- 
sounding smack.  "  This  is  terrible  indeed  !  "  he 
cried  out  in  his  distress;  whereupon  Selvaggia 
forgot  to  be  ashamed  any  more,  she  was  so  taken 
by  surprise. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Cino  ? "  she  began  to 
falter.     "  I  don't  understand  you." 

Cino  plunged  into  the  icy  pool  of  explanation, 
and  splashed  there  at  large.  "  I  mean,  I  mean  " 
— -he  waved  his  hands  in  the  air  —  "it  is  most  dif- 
ficult to  explain.  We  must  apprehend  Love  aright 
—  if  we  can.  He  is  a  grim  and  dreadful  lord,  it 
appears,  working  out  the  salvation  of  the  souls  of 
poets,  and  other  men,  by  great  sufferings.  There 
is  no  other  way,  as  the  books  teach  us.  Such 
love  is  always  towards  ladies;  the  suffering  is 
from  them,  the  love  for  them.  They  deal  the 
darts,  and  receive  the  more  devotion.  It  is  not 
to  be  otherwise — could  not  be  —  there  can  be 
no  poetry  without  pain;  and  how  can  there  be 
pain  if  the  lady  loves  the  poet  ?  Ah,  no,  it  is  im- 
possible !  Anciently,  very  long  ago,  in  the  times 
of  Troy,  maybe,  it  was  different.      I  know  not 


250  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

what  to  say ;  I  had  never  expected,  never  looked, 
nor  even  asked  —  ah,  Madonna,"  he  suddenly 
cried,  and  found  himself  upon  his  knees,  "  what 
am  I  to  say  to  you  for  this  speech  of  yours  ? ' 

Selvaggia,  white  enough  now,  froze  hard.  "  Do 
you  mean,"  she  said  slowly,  in  words  that  fell  one 
by  one,  like  cuts  from  a  deliberate  whip,  "  do  you 
mean  that  you  do  not  love  me,  Messer  Cino,  after 
all  ? " 

"  You  are  a  light  to  my  eyes  and  a  lantern  to 
my  feet,"  Cino  murmured :  but  she  did  not  seem 
to  hear. 

"  Do  you  mean,"  she  went  on,  "  that  you  are  not 
prepared  to  be  —  to  be  my  —  my  betrothed  ? " 

It  was  done :  now  let  the  heavens  fall !  She 
could  not  ask  the  man  to  marry  her,  but  it  came 
to  the  same  thing ;  she  had  practically  committed 
that  unpardonable  sin  ;  she  had  approached  love 
to  wedlock,  a  mystery  to  a  bargain,  the  rapt  con- 
verse of  souls  in  heaven  to  a  wrangle  over  the 
heeltaps  in  a  tavern  parlour.  She  was  a  heretic 
whom  any  Court  of  Love  must  excommunicate. 
The  thing  was  so  serious  that  it  brought  Cino  to 
his  feet,  severe,  formal,  an  Assessor  of  Civil 
Causes.  He  spread  out  his  hands  as  if  to  wave 
aside  words  he  should  never  have  heard.  He  had 
found  his  tongue,  for  he  was  now  contemplating 
the  Abstract. 

"  Be  very  sure,  most  sacred  Lady,"  said  he, 
"  that  no  bodily  torment  could  drive  me  to  such 
sacrilege  as  your  noble  humility  leads  you  to  con- 
template. No  indeed  !  Wretchedly  unworthy 
as  I  am  to  live  in  the  light  of  your  eyes,  I  am  not 
yet  fallen  so  far.     There  are  yet  seeds  of  grace 


MESSER  CINO  AND  THE   LIVE   COAL        251 

within  me  —  of  your  planting,  Madonna,  of  your 
planting ! "  She  paid  no  heed  to  his  compli- 
ments; her  eyes  were  fixed.  On  he  hurried. 
"  So  far,  indeed,  as  those  worldly  concerns  go, 
whereof  you  hint,  I  am  provided  for.  My  wife  is 
at  Lucca  in  her  father's  house  —  but  of  such 
things  it  is  not  fitting  we  should  speak.  Rather 
we  should  reason  together  of  the  high  philosophy 
of  love,  which —  " 

But  Selvaggia  was  gone  before  he  could  invite 
her  on  such  a  lofty  flight ;  the  wife  at  Lucca  sent 
her  fleeting  down  the  mossy  slopes  like  a  hare. 
It  was  too  dark  for  men  to  see  her  face  when  she 
tiptoed  into  Pitecchio  and  slipped  up  to  her 
chamber.  Safe  at  last  there,  she  shivered  and 
drowsed  the  night  away ;  but  waking  or  sleeping 
she  did  not  cease  her  dreary  moan. 

Cino,  after  a  night  of  consternation,  could 
endure  the  hermitage  no  more ;  the  problem,  he 
was  free  to  confess,  beat  him.  Next  day,  there- 
fore, he  took  horse  and  rode  over  the  mountains 
to  Bologna,  intent  upon  finding  Dante  there ;  but 
Dante  had  gone  to  Verona  with  half  of  his  "  In- 
ferno "  in  his  saddlebag.  Thither  Cino  pursued 
and  there  found  him  in  the  church  of  St.  Helen, 
disputing  with  the  doctors  upon  the  Question  of 
the  Land  and  the  Water.  What  passed  between 
the  great  poet  and  the  less  I  cannot  certainly  re- 
port, nor  is  it  material.  I  think  that  the  tinge  of 
philosophy  set  here  and  there  in  Cino's  verses,  to 
say  nothing  of  a  couplet  or  two  which  give  more 
than  a  hint  of  the  "  Vita  Nova,"  may  safely  be 
ascribed  to  that  time.  I  know  at  least  that  he  did 
not  cease  to  love  his  beautiful  and  wild  Selvaggia 


252  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

so  far  as  he  understood  that  delicate  state  of  the 
soul  which  she,  perverse  child,  had  so  signally 
misapprehended.  The  truth  may  well  be  that  he 
was  tolerably  happy  at  Verona,  able  to  contem- 
plate at  his  ease  the  divine  image  of  his  lady  with- 
out any  interference  from  the  disturbing  original. 
He  was,  it  is  said,  meditating  an  ambitious  work, 
the  history  of  the  Roman  Polity  from  Numa  to 
Justinian,  an  epic  in  five-and-twenty  books,  where- 
in Selvaggia  would  have  played  a  fine  part,  that 
of  the  Genius  of  Natural  Law.  The  scheme 
might  have  ripened  but  for  one  small  circum- 
stance ;  this  was  the  death  of  Selvaggia. 

That  healthy,  laughing  girl,  Genius  of  Nature 
or  not,  paid  the  penalty  of  her  incurable  childish- 
ness by  catching  a  malaria,  whereof  she  died,  as  it 
is  said,  in  a  high  delirium  of  some  eight  hours. 
So  it  seems  that  she  was  really  unteachable, 
for  first  she  had  spoiled  Cino's  martyrdom,  and 
next,  by  the  same  token,  robbed  the  world  of  an 
epic  in  twenty-five  books.  Cino  heard  of  it  some 
time  afterwards,  and  in  due  season  was  shown  her 
tomb  at  Monte  della  Sambuca  high  on  the  Apen- 
nine,  a  grey  stone  solitary  in  a  grey  waste  of 
shale.  There  he  pondered  the  science  of  which, 
while  she  was  so  strangely  ignorant,  he  had  now 
become  an  adept ;  there,  or  thereabouts,  he  com- 
posed the  most  beautiful  of  all  his  rhymes,  the 
canzone  which  may  stand  for  an  elegy  of  the  Lady 
Selvaggia. 

"  Ay  me,  alas  !  the  beautiful  bright  hair,  —  " 
Ay  me,  indeed  !     And  thus  he  ends  : 


MESSER  CINO  AND  THE   LIVE  COAL        253 

"  Ay  me,  sharp  Death  !  till  what  I  ask  is  done 
And  my  whole  life  is  ended  utterly,  — 
Answer,  —  must  I  weep  on 
Even  thus,  and  never  cease  to  moan  ay  me  ?  " 1 

He  might  well  ask.  It  should  be  accorded  him 
that  he  was  worthy  of  the  occasion :  the  poem  is 
very  fine.  But  I  think  the  good  man  did  well 
enough  after  this ;  I  know  that  if  he  was  sad  he 
was  most  melodiously  sad.  He  throve ;  he  be- 
came a  professor ;  his  wife  bore  him  five  children. 
His  native  city  has  done  him  what  honour  she 
could,  ousted  his  surname  in  favour  of  her  own, 
set  up  a  pompous  monument  in  the  Cathedral 
Church  (where  little  Selvaggia  heard  her  dull 
mass),  and  dubbed  him  once  and  for  all,  L* amoroso 
Messer  Cino  da  Pistoja.  That  should  suffice 
him.  As  for  the  young  Selvaggia,  I  suppose  her 
bones  are  dust  of  the  Apennine. 

1  The  translation  is  Rossetti's. 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO 

"Unde  proverbii  loco  etiamnunc  usurpatur,  praeteriisse  Borsii 
tempora."  —  Este  Chronicle. 

I 

THE    ADVENTURERS 

It  is  happily  as  unnecessary  as  it  would  be 
unwise  to  inquire  into  the  ancestry  of  Bellaroba, 
a  meek-eyed  girl  of  Venice,  with  whom  I  have  here 
some  concern.  Her  mother  was  La  Fragiletta,  of 
the  Old  Ghetto,  and  her  father  may  have  been  of 
the  Council  of  Ten,  or  possibly  a  Doge.  No  one 
could  deny  it,  for  no  one  knew  his  name.  It 
is  certain  that  his  daughter  was  not  christened 
as  she  was  called,  equally  certain  that  the  nick- 
name fitted  her.  Bella  roba,  a  pretty  thing,  she 
always  had  been  for  her  mother's  many  friends ; 
bella  roba  in  truth  she  looked,  as  La  Fragiletta 
fastened  her  dark  red  dress,  stuck  a  bunch  of 
carnations  in  the  bosom  of  it,  and  pulled  up  the 
laces  round  her  slim  neck,  on  a  certain  May 
morning  in  or  about  the  year  1469.  "  The  shape 
you  are,  child,"  said  that  industrious  woman,  "  I 
can  do  nothing  for  you  in  Venice.     It  is  as  timid 

254 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  255 

as  a  nun's.  Ferrara  is  the  place  of  all  the  world 
for  you.  I  look  forward  to  your  speedy  estab- 
lishment in  a  city  where  a  girl  may  be  like  a 
flagstaff  and  yet  not  thought  amiss." 

Bellaroba  looked  humbly  at  herself  in  the  glass; 
though  she  could  see  that  she  was  pretty,  it  was 
not  to  be  denied  that  she  was  thin.  Ah,  no ;  she 
did  not  take  after  her  mother.  Here  she  sighed 
to  remember  that  her  bosom  friend  Olimpia 
Castaneve  took  after  hers  only  too  well,  and  was 
to  accompany  her  fortune-hunting  in  Ferrara  for 
precisely  opposite  reasons.  Was  this  fair?  she 
wondered.  She,  Bellaroba,  was  to  go  because 
she  was  of  a  piece  with  the  Ferrarese ;  Olimpia, 
because  she  could  furnish  a  provoking  contrast. 
She  was  an  affectionate,  docile  creature,  this 
shrinking  Bellaroba,  absurdly  young,  absurdly 
your  servant;  but  tears  smarted  in  her  eyes  as 
she  stood  adorned  for  sacrifice  —  in  her  tight 
crimson  dress,  lace  at  her  neck  and  wrists,  a 
jewel  on  her  forehead,  a  chain  in  her  hair,  and  a 
cold  block  of  lead  dragging  at  her  heart.  She 
had  never  denied  any  one  anything,  and  certainly 
not  her  mother.  Her  tears  glistened  as  she 
blinked,  her  lip  was  shaky ;  she  was  kissed  a 
good-bye  none  the  less,  and  went  down  the  steps 
to  join  Olimpia  huddled  in  the  gondola. 

"  Good-bye,  my  child,"  cried  Madam  Fragiletta 
from  the  doorway.  "  Be  wise  ;  remember  what  I 
have  told  you.  Never  see  a  priest  the  wrong 
side  of  the  grille,  and  obey  Monna  Nanna  in 
everything.  I  shall  have  a  mass  for  you  at  San 
Zan  to-morrow,  and  another  on  your  birthday, 
which   I  shall  never  forget." 


256  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

The  morning  was  misty  and  sharp,  Madam 
Fragiletta  was  very  much  undressed,  and  loved 
her  bed.  She  waved  her  hand  gallantly  to  Bella- 
roba,  who  still  stood  up  wistful  in  the  gondola ; 
she  did  not  wait  for  it  to  shoot  the  bridge  or 
round  the  square  corner  of  the  rio,  but  turned 
shrugging  to  the  house.  There  was  no  reason- 
able probability  that  these  two  would  ever  meet 
again.  Short  outlooks  govern  La  Fragiletta's 
trade,  and  Providence,  it  seems,  has  little  to  do 
with  it. 

Olimpia  Castaneve,  the  muffled  brooder  in  the 
poop,  was  cold,  cross,  and  still.  Bellaroba  sniv- 
elled, but  she  was  scornful  under  her  cloak,  and 
no  word  passed  between  the  pair  until  they  were 
in  the  great  blunt-nosed  barge,  heading  against 
a  crisping  tide  for  Chioggia.  Then,  as  the  sun 
shot  through  the  mist  and  revealed  the  lagoon, 
one  broad  sheet  of  silver  and  blue,  the  shawls 
were  opened,  limbs  went  luxuriously  at  the 
stretch ;  you  could  see  and  hear  chatter  the 
couple  of  adventurers  if  you  cared.  Bellaroba 
you  have  seen  already  —  very  gentle,  very  simple, 
very  unformed  without  and  within.  She  had 
pretty  ways,  coaxing  and  appealing  ways.  When 
she  asked  a  question  it  was  with  lifted  eyebrows 
and  a  head  on  one  side.  She  would  take  your 
hand  without  art,  and  let  you  hold  it  without 
afterthought.  It  was  the  easiest  thing  in  the 
world  to  kiss  her,  for  she  suffered  it  gladly 
and  quite  innocently ;  it  came  as  naturally  as  to 
a  cat  to  rub  his  cheek  on  your  chair  or  swinging 
foot.  Yet  the  girl  was  as  modest  as  a  Clare. 
If  you   had   presumed  on  your  licence  to  make 


THE   JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  257 

love  to  her,  it  would  not  have  been  her  scorn 
(for  she  had  none),  but  her  distress  that  would 
have  set  you  back  in  your  place.  God  knows 
what  La  Fragiletta  might  have  taught  her.  It 
is  certain  she  was  all  unlettered  in  love  up  to 
that  hour.  Bellaroba  was  not  only  modest  by 
instinct,  but  that  better  thing,  innocent  by  pre- 
occupation. 

In  all  this  she  was  a  dead  contrast  to  her  hand- 
some friend  Olimpia  Castaneve,  who  was  really  a 
beauty  of  the  true  Venetian  mould.  As  sleek 
and  sumptuous  as  a  cat,  as  splendidly  coloured 
as  a  sunburnt  nectarine,  crowned  with  a  mass  of 
red-gold  hair,  as  stupid  as  she  was  sly,  and  as 
rich  as  she  was  spendthrift,  the  lovely  Olimpia 
had  been  sent  adventuring  to  the  bees  of  Ferrara, 
not  as  lacking  honey  for  Venice,  but  as  being 
too  great  a  treasure  for  her  mother's  house. 
Her  mother  was  La  Farfalla  —  a  swollen  but- 
terfly in  these  days — and  frankly  said  that  she 
could  not  afford  such  a  daughter.  Olimpia 
had  no  instructions ;  in  fact,  needed  none.  She 
went  cheerfully  out  to  what  Monna  Nanna  and 
the  Blessed  Virgin  should  prepare  for  her,  with- 
out kisses  (which  she  garnered  against  the  lean 
years)  and  without  reserves.  She  neither  con- 
demned her  mother  nor  approved.  Perhaps  she 
had  not  the  wit ;  assuredly  she  lacked  the  energy. 
She  was  remarkably  handsome  in  her  hot,  Vene- 
tian way,  richly  coloured,  brown-eyed,  crimson- 
lipped,  bosomed  like  a  goddess  and  shaped  like 
a  Caryatid.  She  half  closed  her  eyes,  half  opened 
her  lips,  smiled  and  drowsed  and  waited.  You 
would  have  thought  her  melting  with  love ;  she 


258  LITTLE   NOVELS   OF   ITALY 

was  ciphering  a  price,  but  being  slow  at  figures, 
she  hid  herself  (spiderwise)  in  a  golden  mesh. 
Olimpia  was  nearly  always  complaisant,  had  no 
reticences,  no  conscience,  few  brains.  She  was 
luxury  itself,  fond  of  the  fire,  fond  of  her  bed, 
fond  of  her  dinner.  Admittedly  self-absorbed, 
she  was  accustomed  to  say  that  she  knew  far  too 
much  about  love  to  fall  into  it.  It  was  a  reflec- 
tion as  serious  as  she  could  make  it;  but  Love 
is  very  apt  to  take  such  sayings  amiss.  Olimpia 
out  of  love  might  make  men  miserable ;  in  it, 
what  might  she  not  do  ?      I  am  about  to  tell  you. 

At  Chioggia  they  were  to  await  a  shipload  of 
merchants  and  pack-mules  expected  from  An- 
cona;  but  the  wind  proved  counter  when  their 
barge  had  weathered  Malamocco,  and  that  which 
dis-served  them  befriended  the  northering  freight. 
They  found  the  train  of  beasts  awaiting  them, 
saddled  and  loaded,  restless  to  be  off.  Chioggia 
to  Ferrara,  by  the  road  they  would  go,  is  a  hand- 
some fifty  miles. 

In  that  company,  as  they  neared,  they  observed 
a  calm-eyed  youth  with  a  delicate,  girlish  face, 
and  wonderful  shock  of  light  gold  hair  all  about 
it.  He  stood  alone  on  the  mole,  one  knee  bent, 
a  hand  to  his  hip,  and  soberly  surveyed  the  group 
on  the  barge.  He  made  a  charming  little  pic- 
ture there  —  seemed  indeed  posed  for  some  such 
thing ;  he  was  charmingly  pretty  himself,  but  for 
all  that,  he  had  a  tragic  touch  upon  him,  a  droop 
of  the  lip,  or  the  eyelid,  perhaps.  One  could 
hardly  say,  yet  never  miss  it.  Even  Olimpia  no- 
ticed the  shadow  across  him.  As  they  touched 
— "  Look,  look,  Bellaroba,"  she   whispered,   and 


THE  JUDGMENT   OF  BORSO  259 

nudged  her  friend  —  "  that  boy  !     Did  you  ever 
see  such  a  lovely  child  ?  " 

Bellaroba  drew  a  long  breath.  "  I  think  he  is 
as  lovely  as  an  angel,"  she  replied,  her  eyes  fasci- 
nated. And  her  saying  was  equally  true.  He  was 
such  a  demure  boy-angel,  bright-haired,  long  and 
shapely  in  the  limb,  as  the  painters  and  carvers 
loved  to  set  in  Madonna's  court,  careful  about 
her  throne,  or  below  the  dais  fiddling,  or  strum- 
ming lutes  to  charm  away  her  listlessness.  More- 
over, Angioletto  was  the  name  he  went  by,  though 
he  had  been  christened  Dominick.  And  he  came 
from  Borgo  San  Sepolcro  —  far  cry  from  windy 
Chioggia  —  a  place  among  the  brown  Tuscan 
hills,  just  where  they  melt  into  Umbria;  and  he 
was  by  trade  a  minstrel,  and  going  to  Ferrara. 
Of  so  much,  with  many  bows,  he  informed  the 
two  girls,  being  questioned  by  Olimpia.  But  he 
looked  at  Bellaroba  as  he  spoke,  and  she  lis- 
tened the  harder  and  looked  the  longer  of  the 
two. 

Everything  about  him  seemed  to  her  alto- 
gether gracious,  from  the  silky  floss  of  his  gold 
hair  to  his  proper  legs,  sheathed  in  scarlet  to  the 
thighs.  He  was  as  soft  and  daintily  coloured  as 
a  girl,  had  long  curved  lashes  to  his  grey  eyes, 
a  pathetic  droop  to  his  lip,  the  bloom  as  of  a 
peach  on  his  cheeks.  But  you  could  never  mis- 
take him  for  a  girl.  His  eyes  had  a  critical  blink, 
he  looked  to  have  the  discretion  of  a  man.  A 
fop  he  might  be;  he  had  a  wiry  mind.  A  fop, 
in  fact,  he  was.  He  had  a  little  scarlet  cap  on 
his  head,  scarlet  stockings,  peaked  scarlet  shoes : 
for  the  rest  he  was  in  green  cloth  with  a  blue 


26o  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

leather  belt  about  his  waist.  He  had  fine  lace 
ruffles  at  his  wrists,  a  fine  line  of  white  at  his 
throat,  and  in  his  ears  (if  you  could  have  seen 
them)  gold  rings.  Just  the  pampered  young 
minion  of  any  Tuscan  court,  a  precocious  wrap- 
page of  wit,  good  manners,  and  sensibility,  he 
looked  what  he  spoke,  the  exquisite  Florentine, 
to  these  broad-vowelled  Venetian  lasses ;  did  not 
smile,  but  seemed  never  out  of  temper ;  and  was 
certainly  not  timid.  Self-possessed,  reticent  he 
was ;  but  not  timid.     That  was  proved. 

When  the  cavalcade  was  on  the  point  to  start, 
Angioletto  stepped  forward  and  took  Bellaroba 
by  the  hand. 

"  Little  lady,"  says  he  to  his  blushing  captive, 
"  I  have  a  mule  for  the  road  which  I  am  assured 
is  a  steady  pacer.     Will  you  be  my  pillion  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  Messere,"  said  Bellaroba  in  a  twitter, 
and  dropped  him  a  curtsy  of  her  best. 

"  Excellent !  "  he  cried  gaily.  "  I  can  see  that 
we  are  to  be  friends."     So  she  was  led  away. 

He  helped  her  on  to  the  mule  in  no  time, 
showed  her  how  she  must  hold  him  round  the 
middle,  how  closely  and  how  constantly ;  he  ex- 
plained how  little  there  was  to  fear,  for  all  that 
such  a  manner  of  going  was  as  venturesome  to 
her  as  a  steamer  would  have  seemed  to  Ulysses, 
that  great  captain.  It  was  then  that  Olimpia 
(watching  all  this)  proved  Angioletto  not  timid, 
for  she  saw  him  conclude  his  precepts  to  her 
friend  by  kissing  her  cheek  in  the  easiest  man- 
ner. "  H'm,"  thought  the  wise  Olimpia,  "  I  pray 
that  Bellaroba  may  be  careful." 

She  herself  accepted  the  services  and  part  of 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  BORSO  261 

the  horse  of  a  lean  Ravennese,  a  Captain  of  Lances 
—  two  yards  of  sinew  and  brown  leather — who 
told  her  that  his  name  was  Mosca,  and  his  heart 
bleeding  at  her  feet.  Olimpia  smiled  beautifully 
upon  him,  but  was  careful ;  took  a  share  of  the 
courser,  but  gave  in  return  nothing  more  than  a 
hand  on  its  master's  belt.  He  wanted  much 
more,  and  showed  it.  Olimpia,  far  from  coy, 
hinted  an  exchange.  She  needed  her  bearings ; 
did  this  apparent  hero  know  Ferrara?  The 
Mosca  snorted,  threw  back  his  head  at  the  word. 
Ferrara  ?  cried  he,  did  he  know  it !  Saints  and 
Angels,  who  could  know  it  better  ?  "  Ferrara  ?  " 
he  went  on  to  shout,  appealing  to  gods  and  men, 
"the  gayest  court  in  all  Italy  —  the  cleanest  air, 
the  most  laughing  women,  the  —  pest !  It  is 
a  place  of  holy  days  and  feasts  —  all  music,  loving 
and  delight !  But  you  will  see,  my  dear ;  I  will 
see  that  you  see."  Olimpia  must  know  more 
exactly  than  this,  and  so  she  told  the  Mosca. 
He  could  deny  her  nothing ;  so  as  they  rode  be- 
tween the  grey  swamps  of  the  lagoon,  he  poured 
out  his  understanding  in  his  own  fashion.  His 
oaths  made  her  gasp,  but  the  facts  atoned  for 
that.  By  the  bones  of  God,  but  he  served  a 
great  lord  of  that  city — Guarino  Guarini  by 
name,  whose  blade  was  the  longest,  the  oftenest 
out,  and  the  cleanest  cutter,  as  himself  was 
the  lightest  heart,  and  most  trenchant  carver  of 
men  in  Borso's  fief.  The  good  captain  carried 
his  loyalty  to  the  edge  of  his  simplicity,  and  left 
it  there  for  Olimpia  to  handle.  "  By  the  cheeks 
of  the  Virgin,  my  dear,  I  know  what  I  know. 
My  young  master  has  an  eye  which,  whether  it 


262  LITTLE   NOVELS   OF   ITALY 

say  •  Come  '  or  '  Go,'  needs  not  say  it  twice.  He 
is  as  fine  and  limber  as  a  leopard  on  the  King 
of  England's  shield,  of  a  nature  so  frank  and 
loving  that  I  suppose  there  is  hardly  a  lady  in 
Ferrara  could  not  testify  to  it  —  unless  she  were 
bound  to  the  service  of  his  Magnificence  the 
Duke.  Why!  Yourself  might  make  a  shift  to 
be  my  little  friend,  and  never  repent  it,  mind 
you  —  No,  no,  I  may  be  battered,  my  dear,  but 
I  am  seasoned ;  I  have  great  experience :  you 
would  not  repent,  and  shall  not,  by  the  Face  on 
the  Handkerchief!  But  happen  you  see  my 
master,  happen  he  wear  his  brocade  of  white  and 
gold  —  it  is  all  peacocks'  eyes,  my  seraphic  heart, 
in  gold  and  blue  upon  snowy  white  —  happen 
again  he  look,  'Come'  at  you — Why,  off  you 
trot  as  a  hound  to  the  platter,  and  I  speed  you 
thither  with  open  heart.  Thus  walks  his  world 
Guarino  Guarini,  my  noble  master." 

Olimpia  had  a  colour,  and  flew  it  now  most  be- 
comingly in  her  cheeks.  It  was  a  wholesome, 
healthy,  happy  colour,  born  of  her  growing  excite- 
ment; the  Captain  highly  approved  of  it.  She 
thus  earned  more  information.  Guarino  Guarini, 
it  appeared,  though  not  of  the  reigning  family,  was 
very  near  the  throne.  He  had  married  one  of 
the  d'Este  ladies,  Madama  Lionella,  legitimised 
daughter  of  Duke  Borso,  and  was  now  ignoring 
the  fact  to  his  own  and  her  entire  satisfaction. 
Upon  the  Countess's  score,  Captain  Mosca  had 
not  very  much  to  say.  "  A  great-hearted  lady, 
amorous,  generous,  a  great  lover,"  he  allowed; 
"a  pretty  taste  for  music  and  singing  she  has, 
is  a  friend   of   poets  and   such  like.     The  ante- 


THE  JUDGMENT   OF    BORSO  263 

chamber  is  full  of  them  ;  and  there  they  are  —  on 
promotion,  you  understand.  But  though  she  has 
a  wonderful  free  spirit,  she  is  no  beauty,  you  must 
know.  Her  mouth  is  too  big,  and  her  eyes  are 
too  small.  It  is  a  kissing  mouth,  as  we  say,  my 
dear,  and  a  speaking  eye  —  and  there  you  have 
Madama  Lionella,  who  loves  minstrels." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Olimpia  here,  "  who  is  that 
pretty  gentleman  with  my  friend  ?  Is  he  not  a 
minstrel  ? " 

The  Captain  turned  in  his  saddle  and,  when  he 
had  observed,  snorted  his  disdain. 

"  That  sprout,  my  deary  ?  "  said  he.  "  Some 
such  dapper  little  chamber-fellow,  I'll  warrant 
you.  A  lap-dog,  a  lady's  toy,  with  a  piping  voice 
and  an  eye  for  mischief.  Yes,  he'll  be  for  climbing 
by  Madama  Lionella's  back-stair.  He  has  the 
make  of  it  —  just  the  doll  she  loves  to  dandle." 
Which  was  all  the  Captain  had  to  say  for 
Angioletto. 

Little  as  it  was,  it  was  more  than  Angioletto 
had  to  say  for  Mosca.  He  was,  indeed,  serenely 
indifferent  to  the  lean  brown  man.  From  the 
moment  of  their  setting  out,  he  and  Bellaroba 
had  wagged  tongues  in  concert,  and  before  they 
had  made  a  dozen  miles  each  knew  the  other's 
story  to  the  roots.  Angioletto's  was  no  great 
matter.  The  Capuchins  at  Borgo  had  taught 
him  his  rudiments,  his  voice  had  taken  him  into 
the  choir,  his  manners  into  the  sacristy.  He  had 
been  Boy-Bishop  twice,  had  become  a  favourite 
of  the  Warden's,  learnt  Latin,  smelt  at  Greek, 
scribbled  verses.  Then,  one  Corpus  Christi,  he 
got  his  chance.     There  was  to  be  a  Pageant  — 


264  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

"Triumph,"  he  called  it — a  Triumph  of  Love 
and  a  Triumph  of  Chastity,  wherein  by  the  good 
offices  of  his  friend  the  Warden  he  was  chosen 
for  the  part  of  Love.  It  was  to  be  assumed  that 
he  pleased,  for  Chastity  (who  was  a  great  lady  of 
the  place)  took  him  into  her  service ;  and  there 
he  stayed  until,  as  he  explained,  she  married 
again.  She  had  been  a  widow,  it  seems,  when 
she  took  part  in  the  Triumphs. 

Bellaroba  was  much  interested. 

"  Was  the  lady  kind  to  you,  Angioletto  ?  " 

"  Oh,  very  kind." 

"  But  you  had  to  go,  you  say  ?  " 

"  Yes,     It  was  judged  better." 

"  But  I  don't  quite  see.  If  she  was  kind  I 
wonder  why  you  judged  it  better  to  go,  or  why 
she  did  ?  " 

"  It  did  not  rest  wholly  with  us,"  said  Angioletto. 

Bellaroba  did  not  pursue  the  subject.  But 
after  a  short  pause  — 

"  And  are  you  now  from  her  house  ? "  she 
asked. 

Angioletto  shook  his  head.  "  That  was  a  very 
long  time  ago,"  said  he  ;  "  two  years  at  least.  I 
am  eighteen,  you  must  know.  When  I  left  the 
Marchioness  she  gave  me  a  handsome  present. 
It  sufficed  to  take  me  to  Perugia  —  to  the  Uni- 
versity there ;  it  afforded  me  two  years'  study  in 
the  liberal  arts,  and  my  outfit  for  this  present 
venture  into  the  bargain." 

"  And  do  you  know  what  you  will  do  at 
Ferrara,  Angioletto  ? " 

"  Yes,  quite  well." 

"  What  will  you  do  ?  " 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  265 

"  I  will  marry  you,  Bellaroba,"  the  boy  replied, 
as  he  turned  suddenly,  put  his  arms  about  her 
and  took  a  long  kiss. 

Bellaroba,  in  a  bath  of  love,  made  him  free 
of  her  lips.  For  a  while  the  mule  had  to  do 
his  pacing  alone. 

"  Oh,  Angioletto,  Angioletto,"  whispered  the 
girl,  with  a  hidden  face,  "  I  have  never  been  happy 
like  this  before." 

"  You  will  never  be  unhappy  again,  dearest,  for 
I  shall  be  with  you." 

For  the  time  there  was  no  more  talk,  since  the 
broken  murmurs  of  their  joy  and  wonder  cannot 
be  so  described.  The  billing  of  two  doves  on  an 
elm  was  not  more  artless  than  their  converse  on 
the  mule's  back. 

The  girl  brought  prose  in  again,  as  became  a 
daughter  of  Venice.  What  had  led  Angioletto 
to  Ferrara? 

"  The  Blessed  Virgin,"  he  promptly  replied, 
and  she  sighed  a  happy  acquiescence  in  so  pious 
a  retort. 

"  But  what  else  ?  " 

For  answer  Angioletto  drew  a  silk-bound  letter 
from  his  breast.  "  This  epistle,"  he  said,  "  promises 
me  employment  and  fame  almost  as  certainly  as 
you  promise  me  bliss.  It  is  from  a  Cardinal 
of  my  acquaintance  to  a  noble  lady  of  Ferrara, 
by  name  Lionella,  daughter  of  Duke  Borso  him- 
self, and  wife  to  one  Messer  Guarino  Guarini, 
a  very  great  lord.  The  lady  is  patroness  of  all 
poets  and  minstrels.  Consider  our  fortunes  made, 
my  joy." 

"  They  must   be   made   since   you   believe   it, 


266  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

Angioletto,"  said  Bellaroba  with  faith.  "  I  have 
never  seen  any  one  like  you,  so  beautiful  and  so 
wise  at  once." 

The  compliment  provoked  kisses.  Angioletto 
embraced  her  again  ;  again  conversation  became 
ejaculatory,  and  again  the  mule  tripped  over  the 
reins.  He  learned  before  the  day  was  out  to 
allow  for  this  new  hindrance  to  his  way;  he 
tripped  no  more.  The  lovers  continued  their 
rapt  intercourse  all  that  May-day  journey  through 
the  rice-fields,  until  at  Rovigo  (half  hidden  in  a 
mist  of  green)  they  halted  for  the  night. 


II 

ARMS    AND    THE    MANNIKIN 

The  hubbub  of  the  inn-yard,  where  shouting 
merchants  wrestled  for  porters,  and  donkeys 
brayed  them  down,  the  narrowed  eyes  of  Olimpia, 
the  sardonic  grin  of  the  gaunt  Mosca,  brought 
our  lovers  back  into  the  real  world.  They  faced 
their  foes  together  with  insensible  meeting  and 
holding  of  young  hands.  Angioletto  did  his  best 
not  to  feel  a  detected  schoolboy,  and  did  succeed 
in  meeting  the  Captain's  terrific  looks.  Bellaroba 
made  no  attempt  at  heroism.  Her  blush  was  a 
thing  to  be  seen. 

"  Bellaroba,  come  with  me,  my  child,"  said 
Olimpia, severely;  but  Angioletto  kept  her  hand. 

Captain  Mosca  fiddled  at  his  sword-hilt. 

"  Would  you  like  spitted  lark  for  supper,  Ma- 
donna ?  "  he  asked  with  meaning. 

Olimpia  burst  into  a  shrill  laugh,  and  Angio- 
letto, who  had  the  pluck  of  a  little  gamecock, 
turned  to  his  partner  in  guilt. 

"  And  you,  Madonnetta,"  he  said  sweetly,  "what 
do  you  say  to  boars  head  larded  ?  " 

Bellaroba  giggled  in  spite  of  herself  —  for  she 
was  terribly  frightened  —  but  again  Olimpia, 
the  grand  indifferent,  pealed  her  delight.  The 
Captain  glared  round  about  him  over  a  tossing 

267 


268  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

sea  of  bales  and  asses'  ears;  getting  small  joy 
of  that,  he  scowled  portentously  at  the  little 
minstrel  and  took  a  stride  forward. 

"  Look  you,  sprigling,"  said  he,  "  you  have  to 
do  with  a  man  of  deeds ;  a  man,  by  Saint  Her- 
cules, of  steel." 

Angioletto  was  fired,  cheek  and  eye.  He  never 
faltered. 

"  I  wish  I  had  to  do  with  a  man  of  sense,"  he 
said. 

"  If  you  do  not  drop  that  lady's  hand,  my  lad  —  " 
growled  the  Mosca. 
'  "What  then,  sir?" 

"  Then,"  the  Captain  roared,  "  by  the  antecham- 
bers of  Paradise,  she  shall  cling  to  carrion !  " 

Bellaroba  with  a  little  cry  fell  to  her  knees ; 
Olimpia  bit  her  finger;  Angioletto  shrugged. 

"  You  have  better  lungs  than  manners,  Cap- 
tain," he  said  quietly.  "  These  ladies  of  ours  are 
fatigued  with  travel  and  tired  of  fasting.  More- 
over, I  apprehend  a  bale  of  carpets  on  my  back 
at  every  moment.  We  will,  so  please  you,  sup. 
If  you  and  the  lady  whom  you  escort  will  do  me 
the  honour  of  sharing  my  table  we  can  arrange 
other  matters  at  our  leisure.  I  have  always 
understood  that  encounters  before  ladies  are 
make-believe;  but  your  experience  should  inform 
you  how  far  that  is  true.  By  leave,  Signor  Capi- 
tano." 

Whereupon  he  lifts  up  the  praying  Bellaroba, 
kisses  her  forehead,  and  hands  her  into  the  inn 
as  bold  as  a  Viscount.  One  or  two  tongues 
were  in  one  or  two  cheeks;  one  hand  at  least 
clapped  him  on  the  shoulder  for  a  "  little  assas- 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  269 

sin  "  — a  compliment :  the  honours  were  his  to 
that  present.  Olimpia  followed  after  him,  very 
much  impressed  with  the  thought  that  the  sooner 
she  could  exchange  Mosca  for  Mosca's  master 
the  better  for  her.  In  the  rear  of  the  procession 
stalked  that  gaping  hero,  swearing  rapidly  under 
his  breath  to  keep  himself  in  some  sort  of  coun- 
tenance. 

Angioletto's  assurance,  and  with  it  his  luck, 
held  out  the  evening.  Not  otherwise  could  he 
have  cleared  himself  of  the  mess.  He  fairly  froze 
Mosca  by  the  coolness  of  his  assumptions. 

"  I  will  fight  you  as  soon  as  you  choose,  and 
with  your  own  weapons,  after  supper,"  said  he, 
"  but  it  is  only  fair  to  warn  you  that  you  will  be 
killed." 

"  How  so,  by  the  King  of  Glory  ? "  cried  the 
Captain. 

"  The  wagging  finger  of  Fate,  sir,"  replied 
Angioletto  readily,  "and  the  conjunctions  of  the 
stars.  My  horoscope  was  taken  at  Foligno  with 
the  utmost  exactitude.  Mars  himself,  for  reasons 
of  his  own,  seems  to  have  presided  over  my  be- 
getting. More  than  that,  though  I  have  not  the 
least  desire  to  take  your  life — should  not,  indeed, 
know  what  to  do  with  it  —  it  will  be  impossible 
for  me  to  avoid  it.  I  am  really  very  sorry.  Your 
case  is  just  on  a  parallel  with  that  of  the  younger 
Altopasso  who,  on  this  very  day  a  year  ago,  in- 
sisted upon  fighting  with  me.  It  is  true  that  I 
do  not  pretend  to  love  or  even  to  approve  of  you, 
Captain;  I  consider  that  your  legs  have  out- 
grown your  brains.  But  for  all  that,  I  should  be 
sorry  to  think  that  for  want  of  a  little  ordinary 


270  LITTLE   NOVELS   OF   ITALY 

politeness,  or  for  shanks  out  of  due  measure,  an 
honest  man  had  lost  his  life.  However,  I  fear 
the  affair  has  gone  too  far." 

The  Captain  grew  purple  and  green  by  turns. 
The  room  of  full  tables  was  all  agog.  He  let  out 
an  oath  which  I  omit. 

"  The  affair  has  not  gone  so  far  as  this  blade 
shall  go,  turkey-poult,"  he  thundered. 

"  Make  yourself  quite  easy  on  that  point,  my 
good  sir,"  said  Angioletto,  cracking  a  walnut; 
"  your  sword  shall  fly  the  length  of  the  room.  I 
have  a  pass  that  is  irresistible.  You  cannot  fight 
planets,  Captain." 

"  I  have  never  tried  yet,  by  our  Lord,"  the  Cap- 
tain admitted,  "  but  no  one  has  dared  to  doubt 
my  valour,  and,  planet  or  no  planet,  I'll  run  you 
through." 

Angioletto  smiled  at  another  walnut.  "  I  find 
the  conceit  admirable,"  said  he,  "yet  you  will 
perish  so  sure  as  this  city  is  Rovigo  and  a  titular 
fief  of  my  mistress's  master." 

"  A  straw  for  your  mistress,  little  egg"  cried 
the  suffocating  Captain. 

"  I  will  give  it  to  Countess  Lionella  as  your 
dying  gift,  Signor  Capitano." 

The  name  smacked  him  in  the  face ;  he  shook 
his  head  like  a  worried  bull,  or  as  a  dog  shakes 
water  from  his  pelt.  Olimpia,  too,  was  interested, 
and  for  the  first  time.  With  face  fixed  between 
her  hands,  she  leaned  both  elbows  on  the  table, 
watching. 

"  Is  the  Countess  Lionella  your  mistress  ?  "  she 
asked.  Angioletto  made  her  a  bow;  the  com- 
pany applauded  a  popular  name.    Olimpia  turned 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  271 

a  glance  upon  her  Captain,  which  said  as  plainly 
as  she  could  have  spoken,  "  Finish  him  for  your 
master's  sake."  But  it  had  no  meaning  for  the 
champion,  who  possibly  knew  more  about  his 
master  than  he  had  been  minded  to  declare. 

Angioletto  tapped  the  ground  with  his  toe. 
"  Come,  Master  Captain,"  he  said,  "  before  your 
blood  cools." 

"  Have  no  fear,  bantam,"  said  a  jolly  Dominican 
in  his  ear,  "  that  toad's  blood  was  never  hot."  It 
certainly  looked  like  it.  The  Captain  scratched 
his  head. 

"  Look  ye  now,  youngster,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I 
serve  his  worship  Count  Guarino  Guarini,  who  is 
the  husband  of  Madama  Lionella ;  and  lucky  for 
you  that  service  is.  Otherwise,  by  the  truly 
splintered  Cross,  it  had  gone  hard  with  you  this 
night." 

"  Oh,  brava,  brava !  "  cheered  the  dining-room, 
and  then  hooted  the  Captain  to  his  bench. 

Angioletto  put  up  his  little  hanger  with  a  curt 
nod  in  his  enemy's  direction.  "  For  the  Countess's 
sake  I  spare  you  to  the  Count,  Captain  Mosca; 
though  what  precisely  your  value  may  be  to  his 
Excellency  I  do  not  at  present  understand." 

Thereupon  he  turned  to  his  poor  Bellaroba, 
took  her  in  his  arms  before  them  all,  kissed  her 
eyes  dry  of  tears,  and  ended  by  drawing  a  rueful 
smile  from  her  lips.  The  dining-room  found 
him  admirable  throughout;  but  Olimpia  got  up, 
yawning. 

"  Come,  child,  it  is  time  for  bed,"  she  declared. 
"  I  suppose  even  this  entertainment  must  have  a 
term."     There  was  no  gainsaying  it.     The  lovers 


272  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

were  torn  apart  by  the  moral  force  of  Olimpia's 
attendance;  but  not  until  it  was  demonstrated  that, 
though  good-night  is  a  word  of  two  syllables,  it 
needs  four  lips,  and  is  therefore  capable  of  infinite 
extension. 

"  Well,  my  child,  I  hope  you  are  satisfied  with 
this  little  day's  work,"  said  Olimpia,  half-un- 
dressed. 

For  answer,  Bellaroba,  upon  her  friend's  neck, 
dissolved  in  a  flood  of  happy  tears. 


Ill 

HOW   THEY    CAME   TO    FERRARA 

That  was  a  fair  sight  which  greeted  the  travel- 
lers at  the  close  of  the  next  day  —  the  towers  of 
Ferrara  rising  stately  out  of  a  green  thicket.  The 
lovers  trilled  their  happiness  to  each  other  :  surely 
nothing  but  pleasure  and  a  smooth  life  could  come 
out  of  so  treeful  a  place ! 

"  In  our  Venice,  you  must  know,"  said  Bella- 
roba,  "  we  set  great  store  by  green  boughs,  hav- 
ing so  few  of  them.  We  think  that  harshness 
and  clamour  may  hunt  the  canals,  but  that  birds 
can  sing  in  gardens  of  a  world  really  joyful. 
What  a  cloud  of  green  trees  —  look,  look  how 
near  the  sky  comes  to  them !  Oh,  my  Angio- 
letto,  we  are  going  to  be  so  happy ! "  And  the 
young  girl  laid  her  hot  cheek  on  her  lover's 
shoulder. 

He,  though  her  premises  were  undeniable,  had 
his  doubts.  Her  words  set  him  wondering  what 
was  to  be  the  end  of  this  light-hearted  adventure. 

"  My  dear,"  said  he,  "  if  trees  get  in  a  man's 
way  of  villainy  or  incommode  his  pleasures  he 
will  cut  them  down,  depend  upon  it." 

"Well,  silly  boy,"  she  cried,  and  gave  him  a 

peck  of  a  kiss,  "  and  does  not  that  prove  what  I 

say,  that  there  are  no  villainies  in  Ferrara  ?     For, 

see,  the  trees  are  as  thick  as  a  forest."     She  made 

t  273 


274  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

him  laugh  again  before  many  paces.  His  ringing 
tones  caught  the  ears  of  Captain  Mosca,  and  set 
that  great  man  scowling. 

"  If  I  don't  get  a  crumb  down  that  yapping 
gullet,  call  me  not  Mosca,"  he  grumbled. 

"  Speak  a  little  louder,  Signor  Capitano,"  said 
his  pillion. 

"  Your  pardon,  Madonna  Olimpia,"  he  answered, 
"  but  I  believe  I  was  breathing  a  prayer  on  ac- 
count of  the  little  love-boy  yonder." 

Olimpia  laughed.  "  I  love  him  as  much  as  you 
do,  I  dare  swear,"  said  she ;  "  but  he  may  be  very 
useful.  Remember  that  I  am  but  a  poor  gentle- 
woman with  my  fortune  to  make." 

"  Give  me  the  making  of  it,  my  angel,"  cried 
the  Captain,  crushing  his  heart  with  his  fist.  "  You 
shall  have  the  most  crowded  cortile  in  Ferrara. 
May  I  give  you  a  humble  bit  of  advice  ? " 

"  Certainly  you  may." 

"  It  will  be  this,  then,  that  you  hold  off  from 
Monna  Nanna  and  keep  yourself  very  much  to 
yourself.  Between  us  we  can  arrange  a  pretty 
future.  I  know  Monna  Nanna  better  than  be- 
comes me.  Believe  me,  the  acquaintance  would 
become  you  still  less.  But  with  such  talents  as 
I  have  —  and  they  are  all  yours  —  I  can  arrange 
for  you  a  most  proper  dwelling-place  which  shall 
cost  little  and  bring  much  in." 

"  But  we  cannot  live  there  alone,  Captain." 

"Hey!  I  am  beforehand.  I  parry  with  the  head, 
my  duchess,"  cried  the  delighted  Mosca.  "  I  have 
thought  of  all  that.  There  is  an  old  lady  of  my 
friendship  in  the  city,  by  name  Donna  Matura. 
She  is  something  decayed  in  estate  o'  these  days, 


THE  JUDGMENT   OF   BORSO  275 

has  fewer  crusts  than  teeth,  poor  soul,  but  has 
mingled  with  the  highest.  She  will  be  all  that 
you  could  wish,  and  you  more  than  she  could 
hope  for.     Think  of  it,  lady,  think  of  it." 

"  I  will,"  said  Olimpia,  who  had  already  done 
so.  There  is  no  doubt  that  she  and  the  Mosca 
understood  each  other. 

They  were  now  riding  up  the  long  lime-tree 
avenue  which  leads  to  the  Sea-Gate  of  Ferrara ; 
soon  they  entered  Ferrara  itself,  that  city  of  warm 
red  brick,  of  broad  eaves,  of  laughter  and,  as  it 
were,  a  fairy-tale,  bowered  in  rustling  green.  The 
streets  ran  wide  between  garden  walls  and  the 
massy  fronts  of  great  square  houses;  they  were 
full  of  a  traffic  which  seemed  that  of  a  prosperous 
people  bent  upon  pleasure.  Happy  ladies  rode 
by  with  hawks  or  leashed  dogs,  or  crowns  of 
flowers.  Cavaliers,  in  white  and  yellow,  rib- 
boned, slashed,  curled,  and  feathered,  went  in 
and  out  of  the  throng  to  keep  an  assignation, 
or  to  break  one.  The  priests  joked  with  the 
women,  the  very  urchins  coaxed  for  kisses. 
Every  street  corner  had  its  lovers'  tryst,  never 
a  garden  walk  without  its  loitering  pair,  never  a 
lady  came  out  of  a  church  door  but  there  stood 
a  devout  adorer  to  beg  a  touch  of  holy  water 
from  her  finger-tip. 

"  How  happy  this  people  is,"  cried  Bellaroba, 
flushed  and  sparkling,  to  her  little  lord.  "  Every- 
body loves  everybody  else." 

"  My  dear,  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  their 
loves ;  we  are  going  to  be  married,"  replied  Angio- 
letto,  looking  straight  before  him. 

"  Yes,  Angioletto,"  said  she,  as  meek  as  a  mouse. 


276  LITTLE   NOVELS   OF   ITALY 

Olimpia,  who  was  not  thinking  of  marriage,  was 
highly  entertained.  There  was  a  press  of  grooms 
and  led  horses,  richly  caparisoned,  outside  the  open 
doors  of  a  new  and  very  spacious  palace.  Round 
about  them  crowded  people  of  a  meaner  sort,  and 
beggars  not  a  few;  but  a  lane  was  kept  to  the 
gateway  by  soldiers  in  red  and  yellow,  who  bore 
upon  their  breasts  a  quartered  coat  of  eagles  and 
lilies. 

"  Hist ! "  said  Mosca,  pulling  up  his  horse. 
"  This  is  the  fine  new  palace  of  the  Duke's,  which 
he  calls  his  Schifanoia.  He  is  evidently  expected 
in  from  his  hawking.  The  greatest  falconer  you 
ever  knew,  my  life !   I  do  assure  you." 

"  That  may  very  well  be,"  said  Olimpia,  "  for  I 
have  never  known  one  at  alL" 

"  You  shall  know  this  one  before  I  die,  and 
another  who  is  my  most  noble  master,"  cried 
Mosca,  "  or  I  am  your  kennel-dog  for  nothing." 

"  Let  us  wait  a  little  and  see  this  hawking  Duke 
of  yours,"  Olimpia  said,  with  a  gentle  pressure  of 
her  arms  about  the  Captain's  middle. 

"  Blood  of  blood,"  sighed  the  Mosca,  "  I  am  as 
wax  in  the  candle  of  you,  my  soul." 

Olimpia  pulled  down  her  hood.  Her  patience 
was  rewarded  in  no  long  time  by  the  sound  of  an 
approaching  cavalcade;  presently  she  saw  the 
nodding  plumes  of  riders  and  their  beasts  at  the 
end  of  the  street.  Knights,  squires,  and  ladies 
rode  with  their  reigning  prince :  he  himself  with 
two  young  men,  magnificently  dressed,  came  in 
advance  of  the  troop,  and  at  a  great  pace. 

Olimpia  judged  her  time  well.  At  the  moment 
Duke  Borso  drew  rein  to  turn  into  his  gates  she 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  277 

threw  back  her  hood  and  looked  him  full  in  the 
face,  as  if  to  dower  him  with  all  the  splendour  of 
her  beauty.  The  sly,  humorous  face  of  the  old 
fox  twitched  as  his  eyes  caught  the  girl's.  He 
looked  a  prude  with  a  touch  of  freakishness  in 
him;  his  pursed  mouth  seemed  always  to  be 
strangling  a  smile,  the  issue  of  the  strife  always 
in  doubt.  Now,  for  instance,  though  Olimpia 
said  to  herself  that  she  was  satisfied,  she  could 
never  have  denied  that  he  disapproved  of  her, 
while  nobody  could  have  maintained  it.  Borso 
had  shot  upon  her  a  piercing  glance  the  minute 
in  which  he  had  turned  his  horse;  Mosca  had 
had  the  benefit  of  another;  then  he  had  acknow- 
ledged in  military  fashion  the  waving  caps  and 
kerchiefs  at  the  gates  and  had  passed  into  the 
courtyard. 

"  Oh,  you  may  be  satisfied,  my  soul,"  said  the 
Mosca.  "  Borso  will  never  forget  us  now:  it  is 
not  his  way.  But  look,  look  !  "  Another  pair  of 
eyes  was  at  work,  belonging  to  a  very  handsome, 
ruddy  youth  who  had  been  at  the  Dukes  left 
hand.  Olimpia  needed  no  nudge  from  the 
Captain  to  tell  her  who  this  noble  rider  might 
be.  Guarino  Guarini  for  a  florin !  And  so  it 
was. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mosca,  "  that  is  my  most  intrepid 
master.  The  flaxen  lad  in  silver  brocade,  who 
was  on  the  other  side,  is  Teofilo  Calcagnini,  of 
whom  I  know  little  more  than  that  he  is  Duke 
Borso's  shadow.  You  shall  hardly  see  them 
apart.  The  other,  my  charmer,  the  other  is  our 
man.  Leave  me  to  deal  with  him.  Come  now  to 
the  inn.     To-morrow  you  shall  have  your  hired 


278  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

house,  and  the  next  day  company  for  it  more  to 
your  taste  than  lean  old  Mosca." 

"  I  shall  never  forget  you,  my  Captain,"  said  the 
really  grateful  Olimpia;  and  said  truer  than  she 
knew.  "  Come,"  she  added,  "  we  should  seek  out 
Bellaroba  and  her  little  sweetheart.  There  must 
be  an  end  of  that  pretty  gentleman,  my  friend." 

"  By  the  majesty  of  King  Solomon,  there  shall 
be  an  end,"  Mosca  swore,  and  pricked  his  horse. 

Angioletto  and  his  lady-love  had  been  better 
exercised  than  to  think  of  dukes.  They  had 
thought  of  religion. 

They  passed  by  the  Schifanoia  at  a  sober  walk, 
regardless  of  the  crowd. 

"  My  heart,"  Angioletto  said,  "  there  is  here 
what  I  suppose  to  be  the  most  famous  shrine  in 
Romagna.  I  mean  that  of  the  Madonna  degli 
Greci,  a  pompous  image  from  Byzantium,  which 
proceeded  undoubtedly  from  the  bottega  of  Saint 
Luke.  If  that  Signore  had  been  as  indifferent  a 
painter  as  he  was  great  Saint  (which  is  surely  im- 
possible), we  should  do  well  to  visit  his  Madonna. 
Her  holiness  is  past  dispute;  there  are  very  few 
miracles  which  she  could  not  perform  if  she  chose. 
As  well  as  burning  a  candle  apiece  before  her 
face,  we  could  lay  our  prayers  and  new  love  at  her 
feet.  Beyond  question  she  will  hear  and  bring  us 
good  luck.     What  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  I  think  as  you  think,  Angioletto,"  said  Bella- 
roba, and  held  him  closer. 

"  Let  us  go,  then.  I  know  the  way  very 
well." 

So  they  went  to  the  tune  which  the  young  lad 
sang  under  his  breath,  and  before  long  came  to  a 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  279 

piazza,  not  very  broad,  but  flagged  all  over  and 
set  about  with  stately  brick  buildings,  having  on 
the  left  the  stone  front  of  a  great  church,  tier 
upon  tier  of  arches  interlaced.  The  door  of  it 
was  guarded  by  two  stone  lions,  and  above  the 
porch  was  the  figure  of  a  buxom  lady,  with  a 
smile  half  saucy,  half  benevolent,  to  whom  Angio- 
letto  doffed  his  cap. 

"  They  call  her  Donna  Ferrara,"  he  explained. 
"  This  is  the  Duomo.     Let  us  go  in." 

They  dismounted  ;  a  lame  boy  held  the  mule ; 
they  entered  the  church. 

It  was  very  large,  very  dark,  and  nearly  empty. 
Angioletto  put  his  arm  round  Bellaroba's  waist, 
and  they  began  to  pace  the  aisle  in  confidential 
talk. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  live  in  this  place, 
Bellaroba  ?  "  he  asked  her. 

"  I  don't  know.  Olimpia  knows.  There  was  a 
Monna  Nanna  we  were  to  live  with,  I  think.  But 
Olimpia  will  decide.     I  must  do  as  she  wishes." 

"But  why?" 

"  She  is  older  than  I  am  —  two  years.  Besides, 
I  always  have.     And  my  mother  commanded  it." 

"  Your  last  appears  to  me  the  only  reason 
worth  a  thought.  Do  you  not  want  to  know 
what  I  think  of  it,  Bellaroba  ? "  He  bent  his 
head  towards  her.  Her  answer,  the  flutter  of  a 
quick  little  kiss,  pleased  him.  "  Well,  I  will  tell 
you,"  said  he.  "  I  think  we  should  be  married  at 
once — this  very  minute.     I  do  indeed." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Bellaroba,  blushing  beautifully. 

"  I  can  see  that  you  are  pleased  at  this,  my 
dear,"   Angioletto   said,    looking   at  her.     They 


28o  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

were  head  for  head  level,  these  children.  "  But 
what  would  Olimpia  say  ?  " 

Bellaroba  paused  for  strength  to  tell  the  pain- 
ful truth. 

"  She  would  say  '  Fiddlesticks,'  Angioletto." 

Angioletto  frowned.  "  Ah !  what  is  to  be 
done?"  he  asked. 

Bellaroba  looked  down,  plucked  at  her  skirt, 
saw  Angioletto's  hand  peeping  round  her  waist. 
It  seemed  difficult  to  say,  and  yet  what  she  did 
say  was  very  simple :  "  We  have  not  asked 
Olimpia,  you  know." 

"  No,"  Angioletto  answered;  "  we  have  had  no 
time  yet.     But  we  will,  of  course." 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  said  she,  who  kept  her  eyes 
hidden,  and  spoke  very  low.  "  Oh,  of  course. 
But—" 

"  Well,  dearest  ?  " 

"  Could  we  not  —  would  it  not  be  wiser  —  of 
course  you  know  best,  Angioletto! — -might  we 
not  ask  her  —  afterwards  ?  " 

Angioletto  kissed  her. 

"  You  are  as  wise  as  you  are  lovely,  my  little 
wife.  Come,  let  us  find  the  Madonna  degli 
Greci."     And  he  led  her  away  by  the  hand. 

They  found  her  in  the  north  transept,  in  a  little 
fenced  chapel  all  starry  with  tapers  and  gleaming 
gold  and  silver  hearts.  As  it  was  the  eve  of 
Pentecost  she  was  uncovered ;  they  could  see  her 
dark  outline  with  its  wrought  metal  ring  about  the 
head.  Halfway  down  was  another  metal  ring; 
Bambino's   head   should  be  in  there. 

Both  the  hand-fasted  pilgrims  fell  to  their 
knees:    Bellaroba   crossed   herself,  and  then  hid 


THE  JUDGMENT   OF   BORSO  281 

her  face  with  her  left  hand,  Angioletto  with  his 
right.  After  a  silence,  about  the  space  of  two 
Hail  Mary's,  the  youth  looked  resolutely  up  at 
Madonna,  and  began  to  speak  to  her. 

"  Holy  and  most  glorious  Virgin,  Mother  of 
God,"  said  he,  "  we,  thy  children,  have  sought 
thee  first  in  this  famous  city  of  Ferrara,  because 
we  are  sure  that  thou  wilt  love  us  even  more  than 
we  love  each  other,  and  wilt  be  glad  to  share  our 
secret.  We  are  going  to  marry  each  other  at 
this  moment,  Madonna,  and  thou  shalt  be  the 
priest.  There  can  be  none  better,  since  thou 
hadst  in  thy  womb  for  many  months  the  great 
Priest  of  all  Christians,  our  sublime  Redeemer. 
Now,  behold,  Madonna,  how  I  wed  this  my  wife, 
Bellaroba.  With  this  ring,  which  was  given  me 
by  a  very  great  lady,"  and  he  took  a  ring  from 
his  breast,  "  I  wed  my  wife,  placing  it  upon  her 
finger  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the 
Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  I  do  not  endow 
her  with  my  worldly  goods,  for  thou  knowest  I 
have  none.  I  do  not  worship  her  with  my  body 
at  this  moment,  but  in  the  meantime  I  worship 
her  unfeignedly  with  my  mind,  just  as  I  worship 
thee  with  my  soul.  It  appears,  therefore,  that  I 
have  wedded  her  enough.  It  is  useless,  most 
sacred  Lady,  to  ask  her  whether  she  will  honour 
and  obey  me,  because  of  course  she  will,  seeing 
that  she  loves  me  with  all  her  good  heart.  Such 
as  we  are  —  very  young,  quite  poor,  but  much 
thy  servants  —  thou  knowest  whether  thou  canst 
be  happy  in  this  mating.  I  believe  that  thou 
canst.  Now,  therefore,  since  she  is  mine,  she 
shall  say  with  me  three  Aves  and  a  Paternoster, 


282  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

likewise  the  Credo,  or  so  much  of  it  as  she  can 
remember.  And,  O  Madonna,  trust  me  to  cherish 
her,  and  do  thou  intercede  for  us.  Per  Christum 
Dominum  nostrum  —  Amen." 

"  Bellaroba,  my  wife,  look  at  me,"  he  said,  and 
the  girl  looked  up  wondering.  He  took  her 
happy  face  between  his  hands,  and  kissed  her 
two  eyes,  her  forehead,  and  her  mouth.  Then 
they  said  the  appointed  prayers,  and  rose  to 
their  feet  to  return ;  nor  did  they  forget  the 
candles,  but  purchased  them  at  the  door  of  an 
old  lady,  who  had  a  basketful  to  sell. 

Coming  out  of  the  church  into  the  sun  again, 
they  encountered  the  scrutiny  of  Olimpia.  Cap- 
tain Mosca,  slapping  his  booted  leg,  was  holding 
the  horse. 

"  Where  have  you  two  children  been  ? "  said 
Olimpia.  "Mischief  in  a  corner,  eh?  You  have 
missed  the  sight  of  Duke  Borso  and  a  gilded 
company." 

"  We  have  been  saying  our  prayers  to  Madonna 
of  the  Greeks,"  said  Bellaroba  meekly. 

"  There  are  red  flames  in  your  cheeks,  child, 
and  a  ring  on  your  finger.  Did  you  find  those 
in  the  church  ?  " 

"  Madonna  gave  them  to  me,  Olimpia." 

"  So,  so,  so !  Do  you  begin  by  robbing  a 
shrine,  pray  ? " 

"  Ah,  Madama  Olimpia,"  said  Angioletto,  "  we 
have  only  taken  from  the  shrine  what  is  our  due." 

Not  the  least  of  the  minstrel's  parts  was  that  of 
speaking  as  though  he  had  something  weighty  in 
reserve.  Olimpia,  though  by  nature  dull,  was  also 
sly.     She  had  a  suspicion  about  Angioletto  now; 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  283 

but  a  quick-shifting  glance  from  one  to  the  other 
of  the  pair  before  her  revealed  nothing  but  seren- 
ity in  the  boy,  and  little  but  soft  happiness  in  the 
girl.  She  opened  her  lips  to  speak,  snapped  them 
to  again,  and  turned  to  the  Captain  and  affairs 
more  urgent  than  the  love-making  of  babies.  It 
was  the  hour  of  supper;  the  question  was  of  a 
lodging.  Captain  Mosca  knew  an  inn  —  the 
Golden  Sword  —  where  decent  entertainment 
could  be  had  for  the  night.  As  no  one  could 
deny  what  nobody  knew  anything  about,  it  was 
decided.  They  sought  and  found  the  Golden 
Sword,  and  put  up  with  it,  and  in  it.  The  sup- 
per party  was,  at  least,  merry,  for  Angioletto  led 
it.  He  sang,  he  joked,  made  love,  spent  money, 
was  wise,  unwise,  heedless,  heedful.  He  charmed 
a  grin  at  last  into  the  very  Captain's  long  face. 
That  warrior,  indeed,  went  so  far  as  to  drink  his 
health  in  wine  of  Verona.  He  and  his  Olimpia 
—  unhesitatingly  his  in  the  gaiety  of  the  moment 
— drank  it  out  of  the  same  glass.  "  Love  and 
Ferrara ! "  cried  Captain  Mosca,  with  a  foot  on 
the  table.  "  Love  in  Ferrara,"  said  Angioletto, 
and  stroked  Bellaroba's  hair.  So  everything  was 
very  friendly  and  full  of  hope.  At  a  late  hour, 
and  for  excellent  reasons,  Olimpia  kissed  Bella- 
roba  good-night,  was  herself  kissed  by  Angioletto, 
and  withdrew.  Captain  Mosca  prayed  vehemently 
for  further  and  better  acquaintance  with  his  friend 
"  the  divine  poet,"  and  his  pretty  mistress.  So 
went  Bellaroba's  marriage  supper. 


IV 

"WHY   COME   YE    NAT   TO   COURTE?" 

"  Le  donne  e  i  cavalier,  gli  affanni  e  gli  agi, 
Che  ne  invogliava  amore  e  cortesia." 

The  little  house  —  discreet  affair  of  eaves 
modest  as  drooped  eyelids,  of  latticed  windows, 
of  wistaria  before  and  a  bower  of  willows  behind 

—  was  found  and  furnished  out  of  the  girls'  store 
and  the  Captain's  credit.  Donna  Matura,  a  brown 
old  woman,  hideous,  toothless,  and  inclined  to 
swooning,  was  installed  as  duenna.  She  was,  in- 
deed, owner  of  the  house  and  furniture,  for  which 
Olimpia  paid  and  the  Captain  promised  to  pay; 
but  that  did  not  appear  until  much  later.  There 
was  a  great  charm,  not  without  a  certain  deal  of 
luxury,  in  the  place.  Of  course  there  was  a 
garden  —  a  bright  green  nest  of  flowering  trees 
and  shrubs;  in  the  middle  was  a  grass  plat;  in 
that,  again,  a  bronze  fountain,  which  had  the  form 
of  three  naked  boys  back  to  back,  and  an  inscrip- 
tion to  the  effect  that  it  had  been  set  up  by  a 
certain  Galeotto  Moro,  in  the  days  of  Marquess 
Lionel,  "  in  honour  of  Saints  Peter  and  Paul  and 
of  the  Virgin  Deipara,"  upon  some  special  occa- 
sion of  family  thanksgiving.    The  weeping  willows 

—  themselves  fountains  of  green  —  sprayed  over  a 
stone  seat.    The  whole  bore  signs  of  an  honour- 

284 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  BORSO  285 

able  past;  it  was  falling  now  gently  to  a  comely 
decay;  but  it  answered  every  purpose.  All 
promised  well.  So  much  Captain  Mosca  was 
given  to  understand  ;  yet  it  was  hinted  that  his 
promises  were  not  complete.  "  My  life  and  soul," 
cried  he  on  his  knees  in  the  garden,  "  the  little 
affair  is  a  matter  of  three  minutes."  It  proved 
to  be  a  matter  of  more  than  three  months  and 
was  then  accomplished  in  another  way  and  with 
other  results  than  had  been  looked  for.  Thus 
it  was. 

When  Angioletto  had  been  assured  of  the 
nesting  of  his  mate,  he  dressed  himself  point- 
device  and  went  to  Court  to  deliver  his  creden- 
tials. He  found  the  lady,  upon  whom  so  much 
depended,  at  the  Schifanoia.  Madama  Lionella 
d'Este,  wife  of  the  Count  Guarino  Guarini,  was  a 
fresh-coloured,  lusty  young  woman  of  three-and- 
twenty,  not  at  all  in  love  with  her  husband,  but 
very  much  in  love  with  love.  The  Captain  of 
Lances  had  said  truly  when  he  shrugged  her  off 
as  no  beauty.  Large-limbed  she  was,  the  shape 
of  a  boy,  with  a  long  mouth  and  small  eyes,  full- 
lipped,  big  in  foot  and  hand.  Yet  she  was  a  very 
merry  soul,  frank  if  not  free  in  her  speech  and 
gesture,  and  though  liable  to  bursts  of  angry 
temper,  for  the  most  part  as  innocent  of  malice 
as  a  tiger -cub.  If  you  remember  her  an  Este, 
you  will  forgive  her  much,  excuse  her  everything, 
and  rather  like  her. 

Angioletto,  who  found  her  sitting  on  the  grass 
among  her  ladies,  advanced  with  great  ceremony 
and  many  bows.  Madama  did  not  get  up;  no 
one  did ;  so  Angioletto  had  to  step  gingerly  into 


286  LITTLE   NOVELS   OF   ITALY 

a  ring  of  roguish  women  to  deliver  his  letter. 
Lionella  scampered  through  it,  reddening  with 
pleasure;  she  beckoned  him  with  smiles  to  sit 
beside  her. 

"  We  are  making  rose-garlands  to  adorn  our 
pretty  heads,"  she  said,  laughing.  "  Come  and 
sit  by  me,  Angioletto,  and  sing  to  us.  Who 
knows  but  what,  if  you  are  good,  we  shall  not 
crown  you  with  one  of  them  ? " 

It  was  a  great  merit  of  Angioletto's  that  he 
always  took  things  and  men  (especially  women) 
as  he  found  them.  Such  as  they  were  he  could 
be  for  the  time.  He  was  by  no  means  waxen ; 
elastic  rather.  Down  he  plumped,  accordingly, 
cross-legged  by  his  new  mistress,  and  warbled  a 
canzone  to  the  viola  which  enchanted  the  lady. 

"  More,  more,  more  ! "  she  cried,  clapping  her 
hands.  "  Oh,  boy,  I  could  have  you  a  prince  for 
less  than  that !    What  a  throstle-pipe  you  have !  " 

It  was,  as  he  afterwards  found  out,  of  her  habit 
to  be  for  ever  at  extremes;  but  just  now,  not 
knowing  how  to  take  her,  he  sang  on  all  the 
better  for  her  praise ;  and  he  had  her  next  wrig- 
gling in  an  ecstasy  over  a  trifle  he  made  up  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment  —  a  snatch  wherein  roses 
and  a  girl's  face  (Bellaroba's,  be  sure)  took  turns 
to  be  dominant.  At  the  end  of  this  pretty  piece 
the  Countess  Lionella  fairly  took  his  own  face 
between  her  hands,  crumpled  his  lips  into  a 
bud  and  kissed  them  full.  Angioletto  coloured, 
though  no  one  else  did.  It  was  evidently  quite 
harmless,  and  afterwards  he  was  ashamed  of  his 
shame. 

As   it  was,  a   diversion   of   a   different   order 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  BORSO  287 

broke  in  upon  the  next  song  which,  so  soon 
as  he  had  picked  up  his  nerve,  he  adventured. 
One  of  the  Maids  of  Honour  looked  quickly  over 
her  shoulder,  and  "  Hist,  Madama !  The  Duke !  " 
she  said,  with  wide  eyes  and  a  blush. 

The  song  ceased;  the  whole  company,  Lionella 
included,  scrambled  to  their  feet.  Duke  Borso, 
his  portly  body  swaying  like  a  carriage  on  springs, 
his  hands  behind  him,  and  attended  by  a  tall  young 
man,  very  splendid  and  very  blonde,  came  across 
the  grass  towards  them.  Angioletto  could  not 
decide  whether  to  think  him  rogue  or  prude. 
His  puckered  face  twitched,  his  eyes  twitched,  his 
pursed-up  lips  worked  together;  it  was  again  as 
if  he  were  struggling  with  a  laugh.  He  wore  his 
tall  square  cap  well  off  his  forehead,  and  looked 
what  he  really  was  —  a  strong  man  tired,  but  not 
yet  tired  out,  of  kindness.  The  benevolence 
seemed  inborn,  seemed  fighting  through  every 
seam  of  the  pompous  face.  "  Madonna!  his  gen- 
erous motions  work  him  into  creases,  as  if  he 
were  volcanic  soil,"  thought  Angioletto.  Watch- 
ing him  narrowly  as  he  came,  he  decided  that  this 
was  a  master  to  be  loved  if  not  admired,  respected 
but  not  feared.  "  I  should  get  the  worst  of  a  bout 
with  him,"  thought  he  ;  "  but  I  had  rather  it  were 
with  him  than  with  Apollo."  That  title  was 
just,  as  the  reflection  shrewd.  Teofilo  Calcag- 
nini  would  have  made  a  terrible  tutor  to  Master 
Phaeton. 

Duke  Borso  bowed  shortly  to  the  standing 
maids,  and  favoured  Angioletto  with  a  keen  eye 
before  he  set  a  hand  on  his  daughter's  shoulder. 
She  looked  a  pleased  welcome  as  he  began   to 


288  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

stroke  her  hair.  "  Ah,  they  love  the  man," 
thought  Angioletto  ;  "  good  !  " 

"  Why,  chick,"  said  Duke  Borso,  "  you  are  like 
a  cage  of  singing-birds  scared  by  the  cat." 

"  Your  Grace  shall  judge  whether  we  are  too 
scared  to  sing,"  replied  his  laughing  daughter. 
"  Come,"  she  added,  turning  to  Angioletto,  "  tune 
your  viol  and  pipe  to  it  again,  my  little  poet." 

The  Duke  made  a  wry  mouth.  "  Hey,  I  have 
no  ear  for  music,  my  dear,"  said  he. 

Angioletto  was  ready  for  him.  "  If  your  Mag- 
nificence will  permit,"  he  said,  "  I  will  take  care 
not  to  offend  his  honourable  ear.  I  will  say  my 
piece,  with  no  more  music  than  will  serve  to  tie 
word  to  word.  May  it  be  so,  Magnificence  ? 
Have  I  liberty,  Madama  ?  "  He  bowed,  smiling, 
from  one  to  the  other  of  the  great  people. 

He  was  a  very  courtly  and  charming  little  per- 
son, this  Tuscan  youth.  Above  all,  he  had  a 
ready  address.  So  bright  and  strong,  and  yet 
so  deferential  did  he  look,  pleading  his  cause 
among  them,  Lionella  could  have  kissed  him 
again  for  nothing  more  than  his  dexterity. 

"  Ah,  you  shall  do  whatever  you  like,  Angio- 
letto ! "  she  cried. 

Borso's  eyes  twinkled,  and  he  primmed  his  lips. 
"  I  do  not  go  so  far  as  Madama,  Master  Angio- 
letto, but  I  shall  be  pleased  to  hear  what  you  are 
pleased  to  give  me."  He  fell  into  an  attitude  of 
profound  attention. 

Angioletto,  having  bowed  once  more,  began. 

It  so  happened  that  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  that 
monster  of  genius,  had  not  long  printed  his 
Caccia  col  falcone.     Angioletto  had  it  by  heart 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  289 

against  his  need ;  using  it  now  he  could  never  have 
made  a  better  choice  —  as,  indeed,  he  guessed. 
It  was  as  good  as  a  play  to  watch  Borso's  wary 
eyes  at  the  commencement  of  this  piece,  and  to 
see  them  drop  their  fence  as  the  declamation 
went  on.  Lorenzo  begins  with  a  pretty  descrip- 
tion of  the  dawn  on  Tuscan  hilltops  — 

"  Era  gia  rosso  tutto  l'oriente, 
E  le  cime  de'  monti  parien  d'oro,"  etc. 

Borso,  neither  approving  nor  disapproving,  kept 
his  head  disposed  for  more.     At 

"  Quando  fui  desto  da  certi  rumori 
Di  buon  sonagli  ed  allettar  di  cani  " 

he  began  to  blink;  with  the  quick  direction  to 
the  huntsman  — 

"Deh,  vanne  innanzi,  presto,  Capellaio," 

he  stifled  a  smile.  But  the  calling  of  the  hounds 
by  their  names  broke  down  his  guard.  Angio- 
letto  shrilled  them  out  in  a  high,  boyish  voice :  — 

"  Chiama  Tamburo,  Pezuolo  e  Martello, 
La  Foglia,  la  Castagna  e  la  Guerrina, 
Fagiano,  Fagianin,  Rocca  e  Capello, 
E  Friza,  e  Biondo,  Bamboccio  e  Rossina, 
Ghiotto,  la  Torta,  Viola  e  Pestello, 
E  Serchio  e  Fuse  e'l  mio  Buontempo  vecchio, 
Zambraco,  Buratel,  Scaccio  e  Pennecchio  .  .  .  ." 

Every  muscle  of  the  keen  old  hunter  was  now 
quivering;  his  eyes  were  bright,  his  smile  open 
and  that  of  a  child.  To  the  last  word  of  the 
poem  —  and  it  has  length  —  he  followed  without 
breath  the  checks,  the  false  casts,  the  bickering 

u 


290  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

of  the  huntsmen,  the  petty  incidents  of  a  breezy 
morning  in  the  marshes,  nodding  at  every  point, 
missing  nothing,  cracking  his  fingers,  cheering 
under  his  breath,  with  delight  undisguised  and 
interest  unalloyed.  The  moment  it  was  ended 
he  seemed  prime  for  a  burst  of  heedless  com- 
ment; but  he  stopped,  shut  his  lips  with  a  snap, 
and  became  the  inscrutable  ruler  of  a  fief  of  the 
Empire  once  more.  But  Angioletto  knew  that 
he  had  pleased  him,  for  all  that  he  walked  off  as 
he  had  come,  without  word  or  sign. 

He  had  pleased  every  one.  Homing  to  his 
nest  in  the  Borgo,  he  caught  his  little  Bellaroba 
in  his  arms  with  a  rapture  none  the  less  because 
it  had  been  earned  at  a  stretch.  It  was  long 
before  he  could  find  time  and  breath  to  lead  her 
into  the  garden  and  have  the  story  out.  Olimpia, 
coming  down  to  look  for  them  in  the  dusk,  found 
that  a  seat  for  two  would  easily  hold  one  more.  It 
should  be  added  of  Angioletto  that  he  suppressed 
the  incident  of  the  Countess  Lionella's  salute. 

At  supper  there  were  evidences  that,  whatever 
had  been  Angioletto's  fate,  all  had  not  gone  so 
well  with  the  Captain  of  Lances.  Not  that  appe- 
tite failed  him;  indeed,  he  ate  the  more  for  his 
taciturnity.  Yet  not  repletion  made  him  sigh, 
for  he  sighed  consumedly  before  he  began  and 
rather  less  when  he  had  finished,  as  though  the 
kindlier  juices  of  our  nature  had  got  to  work  to 
disperse  the  melancholic.  Angioletto  rallied  him 
upon  his  gloom,  but  to  no  purpose.  The  meal 
was  a  silent  one;  almost  the  only  conversation 
was  that  of  the  minstrel's  foot  with  Bellaroba's 
under  the  table. 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  291 

The  truth  was,  that  of  conversation  the  Captain 
had  had  enough  before  supper  —  a  very  short 
colloquy  with  his  Olimpia.  In  it  he  was  brought 
to  confess  that  he  had  seen  his  patron  that 
morning.  "Well?"  had  been  Olimpia's  com- 
mentary—  a  shot  which  raked  the  Captain  fore 
and  aft.  Well,  he  desperately  admitted,  there 
was  nothing  actually  arranged  :  patienza  !  His 
most  noble  master  had  been  greatly  harassed 
with  affairs  —  the  Duke's  approaching  visit  to 
Rome,  the  precise  forms  which  must  be  observed, 
the  punctilios,  the  hundred  niceties  of  etiquette: 
"  Ah,  patienzaf"  urged  the  sweating  Mosca. 

Patience,  she  saw,  was  the  only  wear;  but,  per 
Bacco,  he  should  learn  it  too !  She  was  in  a  high 
rage.  The  Captain  was  given  to  know  that  Fer- 
rara  was  a  great  city,  with  more  houses  in  it  than 
one ;  in  fine,  he  was  shown  the  door.  Supper 
first  was  an  extreme  and  contemptuous  conde- 
scension of  Olimpia's,  urged  by  the  thought  that 
a  fed  Mosca  might  be  a  more  desperate  Mosca, 
while  a  lean  one  would  be  desperate  only  for  a 
meal. 

A  true  relation  of  what  passed  in  the  Palazzo 
Guarini  may  serve  to  show  how  just  she  had 
been.  The  Count  had  received  news  of  his 
henchman's  attendance  with  a  nod,  had  kept  him 
waiting  two  hours  in  the  cortile,  then  remembered 
him  and  bid  him  upstairs. 

"Well,  dog,"  said  the  young  lord,  from  his 
dressing-table,  "and  why  the  devil  are  you  so 
late  to  report  yourself?" 

"  Ah,  Excellence,  believe  me  —  "  began  to  stut- 
ter the  Captain. 


29 2  LITTLE  NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  will  not  do,  my  man. 
Who  was  that  wench  at  your  back  yesterday  ? " 

The  Captain  rubbed  his  hands.  "  Excellence, 
a  wench  indeed!  A  golden  Venetian — glorious! 
Dove-eyed,  honey-tongued,  and  very  much  your 
lordship's  servant,  I  do  assure  you." 

"  You  are  so  completely  and  at  such  length  a 
fool,  Mosca,"  said  Count  Guarini,  with  a  yawn, 
"  and  strive  so  desperately  to  be  rascal  in  spite  of 
it,  that  I  am  almost  sorry  for  you.  Tie  me  these 
points,  my  good  fellow,  get  me  my  sword,  and  go 
to  the  devil  with  your  golden  Venetian." 

That,  believe  me,  had  been  all.  Therefore 
Captain  Mosca,  as  he  slunk  out  into  the  dark 
after  supper  in  obedience  to  his  inexorable  Olim- 
pia,  felt  that  he  must  be  more  ingenious  than  he 
had  supposed.  At  the  same  time  it  is  only  fair 
to  say  that  when  he  had  spoken  so  hopefully  of 
his  affair  to  the  lady  on  the  pillion  he  had  be- 
lieved every  word  of  his  own  story.  A  man 
puts  on  spectacles  to  suit  his  complexion :  the 
Captain's  was  sanguine. 


V 


FORTUNE    WITH    THE    DOUBLE    BLADE 


"Similemente  agli  splendor  mondani 
Ordino  general  ministra  e  duca, 
Che  permutasse  a  tempo  li  ben  vani, 
Di  gente  in  gente,  e  d'uno  in  altro  sangue." —  Inf.  vii.  77. 

Angioletto  had  cause  to  believe  in  that  star  of 
his,  for  it  never  wavered  in  the  course  it  held. 
Borso's  court  found  him  much  to  its  taste.  The 
men,  however  tall,  of  looks  however  terrible,  bent 
their  height  and  unbent  their  scowls  to  him ;  he 
was  the  pet  of  all  the  women ;  the  very  Fool, 
saturnine  as  he  was  (with  a  bite  in  every  jest),  had 
no  gibe  to  put  him  to  the  blush  withal.  He  made 
money,  or  money's  worth,  as  fast  as  friends.  A 
gold  chain  with  a  peregrine  in  enamel  and  jewels 
came  to  him  by  the  hands  of  the  Chamberlain ; 
nothing  was  said,  but  he  knew  it  was  from  the 
Duke.  Countess  Lionella  could  not  reward  him 
enough  —  now  a  jewel,  now  a  gold  cup,  at  one 
time  a  purse,  at  another  a  crystal  phial  rilled  with 
Jordan  water.  And  so  it  went,  the  star  waxing 
ever.  He  could  have  maintained  the  discreet 
house  by  Porta  Angeli  out  of  his  earnings,  and 
he  did;  but  you  have  to  pay  for  your  luck 
somehow,  and  it  very  soon  happened  that  he 
could  not  maintain  himself  in  it.  He  was  only 
too  popular.     The    Count    Guarino  wanted  him 

293 


294  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

at  the  Palazzo  Guarini;  the  Countess  insisted 
that  he  should  remain  in  bond  at  the  Schifanoia; 
the  august  couple  wrangled  publicly  over  his 
little  body. 

"  What,  madam,"  cried  the  Count,  "  is  it  not 
enough  that  you  absent  yourself  from  my  house  ? 
Must  you  keep  my  friends  out  of  it  also  ?  " 

"  He  was  accredited  to  me,  my  lord,"  said  the 
lady;  "  to  me,  therefore,  he  shall  come." 

"  Good  madam,"  returned  Guarini,  "  I  admire 
your  taste  as  a  man,  but  deplore  it  as  a  husband. 
I  think  the  little  poet  will  do  better  with  me." 

"  Stuff !  "  cried  the  Countess,  "  I  might  be  his 
mother." 

Said  the  Count:  "  Madam,  I  need  not  deny  it ; 
yet  it  is  very  evident  that  you  are  not  his  mother." 
He  spoke  with  some  heat. 

Lionella  was  mightily  amused.  "  Jealousy,  my 
lord  ?  "     She  arched  her  fine  brows. 

"  I  don't  know  the  word,  madam,"  he  answered 
her,  touched  on  a  raw.  Jealousy  appeared  to  him 
as  the  most  vulgar  of  the  vices. 

"  Prove  that  to  me ! "  the  Countess  pursued 
him.     Guarini  made  her  a  bow. 

"  Perfectly,  Contessa,"  said  he.  "  You  shall 
have  your  poet,  and  he  shall  be  my  friend." 
Wherein  the  Count  showed  that  to  be  a  gentle- 
man it  may  sometimes  be  necessary  to  appear  a 
fool. 

The  matter  was  thus  settled,  and  Angioletto 
ravished  from  his  nest. 

His  last  night  at  home — a  casa,  as  he  loved  to 
call  it  —  need  not  be  dwelt  upon.  Bitter-sweet  it 
was,  yet  his  courage   made  it  more  sweet  than 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  295 

bitter.  Bellaroba  was  tearful,  clung  to  him,  kissed 
and  murmured  incoherently  because  of  sobbing. 
He  loved  her  more  than  ever  for  that,  but  as  be- 
came a  prudent  husband,  thought  to  say  a  word 
in  season. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said  in  her  ear,  as  he  held  her 
close,  "you  are  very  young  to  be  a  wife,  and  too 
young  to  be  properly  left  alone  with  such  com- 
panions as  your  Olimpia,  whom  I  distrust,  and 
Monna  Matura,  whom  I  abhor.  But  what  can  I 
do  ?  I  must  make  our  fortunes,  and  pray  to  God 
that  your  beauty  do  not  mar  them.  Follow  my 
advice,  my  injunctions  even,  and  it  will  not. 
Keep  much  at  home,  go  not  abroad  unattended 
or  uncovered.  Your  hooded  head  makes  you 
surpassingly  beautiful ;  you  need  not  fear  to  be  a 
figure  of  fun.  At  the  same  time  it  shields  most 
of  your  sacred  person  from  profane  eyes.  The 
great  shield  of  all,  however,  is  to  have  business 
before  you  when  you  are  from  house.  Go  briskly 
about  this  —  whether  it  be  market,  Mass,  or  mis- 
chief—  and  no  one  will  look  at  you  twice.  At 
home  it  should  be  the  same.  There  may  be 
visitors ;  if  Monna  Olimpia  can  contrive  it,  there 
will  be  a  good  many.  You  may  judge  of  their 
quality  by  her  anxiety  to  receive  them.  Be 
guarded,  then,  my  dear,  and  go  by  contraries. 
They  will  not  find  the  pattern  of  the  carpet  so 
interesting  as  you  should  do.  Give  them  prose 
for  their  poetry,  vinegar  for  their  sweet  wine, 
bitter  herbs  when  they  look  to  you  for  cane  of 
sugar.  Keep  your  honeycomb  for  him  who  is 
trying  to  earn  it.  Think  where  I  am  going,  my 
Bellaroba!     To  what  temptations,  blessed  Lord.' 


296  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

to  what  askings,  to  what  suggestion  of  wanton 
dealing!  Remember  that  in  all  this  I  shall  have 
your  honour  to  keep,  as  you  have  mine.  Say  a 
great  many  prayers,  my  little  heart,  for  the  welfare 
of  my  soul  and  of  yours;  lock  your  door  at  night; 
let  Monna  Matura  go  with  you  to  Mass  and  con- 
fession ;  and  —  and  —  oh  !  my  wife,  my  little  wife, 
but  I  love  not  the  leaving  of  you ! "  And  so  these 
poor  children  cried  on  each  other's  breasts,  and  so 
fell  to  the  unspoken  tongue  of  Love's  elect.  Next 
morning  he  went  early,  leaving  her  kissed  in  bed. 
He  saw  her  once  again,  spent  a  most  blissful 
two  hours  in  her  company,  before  the  Countess 
Lionella  took  it  into  her  head  to  shelter  from  the 
summer  heats  in  a  villa  she  had  above  Monselice. 
Thither  Angioletto  was  forced  to  go  in  her  train. 
He  found  it  intolerable,  went  with  a  heart  of  lead; 
for  so  cheerful  a  soul  he  was  what  he  looked, 
parched  and  wan.  This  lasted  a  week.  Then 
came  a  paper,  scrawled  with  brown  ink  marks, 
which,  after  much  study,  he  took  to  imply  — 

"  My  love  Angileto,  I  love  you  more  every 
day.  I  cry  a  good  deal  for  lack  of  you.  I  kiss  you 
two  hundred  times,  and  will  be  good  and  happy, 

"  Your  dutiful         Belaroba." 

This  revived  him  amazingly :  he  went  singing 
about  the  gardens  which  hung  upon  the  side  of  the 
grey  hill,  and  composed  a  pastoral  comedy  to  be 
acted  by  the  Countess's  ladies  in  the  Temple  grove. 

Lionella  very  openly  and  without  afterthought 
made  love  to  him.  He  was  a  charming  little  lad, 
it  is  true ;  but  quite  apart  from  that,  he  was  the 
only  male    creature  above    servant    rank  in   the 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  BORSO  297 

household.  I  describe  him  so  because  I  cannot 
bring  myself  to  call  him  a  man ;  but  he  was  quite 
man  enough  for  the  lady's  intent.  It  is  a  surpris- 
ing instance  of  the  tact  there  was  innate  in  the 
youth  that  he  checked  every  undue  liberty  on  the 
part  of  his  mistress  without  endangering  her  self- 
respect  or  his  own  high  favour.  Perhaps  he  al- 
lowed matters  to  go  a  little  too  far.  His  were 
times  of  artless  Art  and  of  franchise  —  immoral, 
yet  mainly  innocent.  Children  call  each  other 
pet  names,  hold  hands,  kiss,  and  no  one  is  hurt. 
So  it  was  in  Ferrara  when  Borso  ruled  it.  Prce- 
teriere  Borszi  tempora !  True  enough.  There 
were  those  who  saw  that  tuneful  time  in  the  shap- 
ing ;  we,  alas  !  look  down  on  the  splintered  shards. 
But  we  know  that  if  Assyrian  balm  was  ever  for 
the  world's  chaffer  it  was  in  the  days  of  Borso,  the 
good  Duke. 

Angioletto  loved  his  Bellaroba  with  all  his 
heart :  no  debonair  Lionella  could  decoy  him  to 
be  untrue.  But  he  was  debonair  himself,  of  high 
courage,  and  mettlesome ;  and  he  may  have  gone 
a  little  too  far.  He  was  now  become  her  confi- 
dant, secretary,  bosom-friend.  Whence  came  the 
shock  of  crisis. 

One  morning  Lionella  called  for  him  in  a  hurry. 
He  found  her,  an  amused  frown  on  her  broad 
brows,  pacing  the  terrace  walk,  holding  an  open 
letter  in  her  hand.  The  moment  he  came  in  sight 
the  Countess  ran  towards  him,  drew  his  arm  in 
hers,  and  began  to  speak  very  fast. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  she  said,  "  I  am  in  a  fix.  You 
shall  advise  me  how  to  act,  the  more  willingly  I 
hope,  as  you  are  in  a  sense  the  contriver  of  all  the 


298  LITTLE   NOVELS   OF   ITALY 

mischief.  You  know  the  Count  my  husband  well 
enough  to  agree  with  me  that  he  is  a  man  of 
gallantry.  He  has  proved  it,  for  it  is  plain  that 
he  would  never  have  left  me  (to  my  great  content) 
to  go  my  own  gait  unless  it  had  been  worth  his 
while.  I  do  him  perfect  justice,  I  believe.  He 
has  never  thwarted  me,  nor  frowned,  nor  raised 
an  eyebrow  at  an  act  or  motion  of  mine.  Never 
but  once,  and  that  was  when  I  proposed  to  take 
you  into  my  service.  Don't  blush,  Angioletto,  it 
is  quite  true.  He  then  raised,  not  his  eyebrows — 
at  least  I  think  not  —  but  some  little  objections. 
I  said  that  I  was  old  enough  to  be  your  mother — 
no,  no,  that  also  is  true,  my  dear!  He  answered, 
'  No  doubt ;  but  it  is  very  evident  that  you  are  not 
his  mother.'  That  again  may  be  true,  I  suppose  ? 
However,  the  affair  ended  in  great  good-humour 
on  both  sides,  and  here  you  are,  as  you  see !  But 
now  the  Count  sends  me  this  letter,  in  which  he 
says  —  let  me  see  —  ah  !  '  Your  ladyship  will  re- 
member my  not  ungenerous  conduct  in  the  matter 
of  the  little  poet,  Angioletto,  on  whose  account  you 
had  certain  benevolent  dispositions  to  gratify '  — 
neatly  turned,  is  it  not  ?  '  I  have  now  to  propose 
to  you,  turn  for  turn,  a  like  favour  to  myself,  which 
is  that  you  shall  take  into  your  service  a  young 
gentlewoman  of  Venice,  who  is  but  newly  come  to 
Ferrara' — What  is  the  matter,  Angioletto  ?  You 
put  me  out.  Where  was  I?  Oh,  yes  —  'She  is 
respectably  bred,  very  modest,  very  diligent,  very 
pious,  moderately  handsome.'  —  My  dear  boy,  if 
you  want  to  sit  down,  by  all  means  say  so.  We 
will  sit  together  here.  — '  The  name  she  goes  by 
with  those  who  know  her  is  Bellaroba.' — Bella- 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  299 

roba,  indeed !  Well  —  'I  am  very  sure  that  you 
will  have  no  reason  to  regret  my  excellent  choice 
on  your  behalf ;  and  it  is  the  more  timely  because 
I  learn  from  Fazio  that  one  of  your  women  has 
fallen  sick  of  the  small-pox '  —  and  so  on.  The 
Count  is  occasionally  sublime.  I  like  particularly 
the  list  of  the  young  lady's  qualifications  and  the 
reference  to  his  own  kindness  to  myself.  Now, 
what  am  I  to  say?  I  see  you  are  puzzled.  Well, 
I  will  give  you  time." 

What  Angioletto  himself  was  to  say  is  more  to 
the  purpose.  I  think  it  much  to  his  credit  that 
his  first  ascertainable  emotion  after  the  buffet  of 
assault  was  one  of  wildest  exultation  at  the  pros- 
pect. It  shows  that  he  had  never  for  a  moment 
distrusted  the  meek  little  partner  of  his  fortunes. 
Whisps  of  such  doubt  did  afterwards  float  across 
his  pretty  morning  picture,  but  he  put  them  away 
at  once.  Next  came  worldly  wisdom.  True  Tus- 
can that  he  was,  his  instinct  was  to  decline  peril- 
ous rapture  if  waiting  might  bring  it  on  easy 
terms.  For  a  long  time  he  weighed  instant  joy 
against  policy.  Finally,  as  he  was  more  Italian 
than  Tuscan,  and  more  boy  than  either,  he  de- 
cided to  jump  the  danger.  The  vision  of  Bella- 
roba  shy  in  the  rose-garden,  of  himself  crowning 
her  soft  hair,  bending  over  her,  kissing  her  up- 
turned face ;  of  the  Countess  behind  one  thicket 
looking  for  him,  and  the  Count  behind  another 
looking  for  Bellaroba  —  it  was  too  much  to  re- 
sist ! 

"  Madama,"  he  said,  "  it  is  hardly  for  me  to  ad- 
vise in  such  delicate  matters.  I  should  not,  by 
right,  dare  say  what  I  am  about  to  say  upon  your 


3oo  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

invitation.  Yet  if  I  were  his  nobility,  Count  Gua- 
rino  Guarini,  not  the  least  of  my  pleasant  moments 
would  be  that  in  which  I  could  say,  '  I  have  a 
noble  lady  to  wife,  for  she  honours  me  as  I  have 
honoured  her.'" 

That  was  a  very  dextrous  remark,  vastly  pleas- 
ing to  the  Countess.  She  kissed  the  speaker 
then  and  there,  wrote  her  letter  hot-head,  talked 
about  it  all  that  day,  and  worked  herself  into  such 
a  fever  of  curiosity  that  she  cut  short  her  villeg- 
giatura  by  six  weeks,  so  as  the  sooner  to  see  the 
girl  who  could  inspire  her  with  such  admirable 
ideas  of  her  own  magnanimity.  She  even  grew 
quite  enthusiastic  upon  her  husband's  account, 
almost  sentimental  about  him.  This  much  the 
wily  Angioletto  (who  did  not  study  character 
for  nothing)  had  allowed  for  in  his  calcula- 
tions. 

It  is  by  no  means  certain  that  the  Countess 
was  as  wise  as  her  guide.  The  facts  which  in- 
duced the  letter  were  these.  Guarini  had  chanced 
upon  an  early  mass  at  San  Cristoforo  and  Bella- 
roba  kneeling  at  her  prayers.  She,  all  unconscious 
of  any  presence  but  her  own  and  her  Saviour's, 
was  looking  up  to  the  Mother  who  had  made  Him 
so,  dim-eyed,  and  smiling  rather  tenderly.  Her 
lips  framed  petitions  for  the  coming  home  of  An- 
gioletto. She  had  hooded  her  head  as  he  com- 
manded, and  it  became  her  as  he  had  foreseen. 
With  her  added  cares  of  wifely  duty  this  gave  a 
sober  look  to  her  untameable  childish  bloom ; 
she  was  almost  a  business-like  beauty  now.  To 
Guarino  the  pathetic  appealed  more  nearly ;  to 
him  she  seemed  a  pretty  nun,  a  wood-bird  caged. 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  301 

He  never  took  his  eyes  off  her  —  she  caught  him 
in  a  soft  mood  and  ravished  him.  A  little  saint 
in  bud,  he  swore ;  a  wholesome,  domestic  little 
household  goddess,  meek  and  very  pure,  who 
would  carry  home  her  beauties  unaware  and  oil 
the  tousled  heads  of  half  a  dozen  brothers  and 
sisters.  Homeliness  is  neither  Italian  word  nor 
virtue ;  but  just  as  it  describes  Bellaroba,  so  an 
inkling  of  its  charm  thrilled  the  young  lord  who 
saw  her.  Could  one  cage  such  a  gossamer  thing  ? 
Fate  had  done  it,  why  not  he  ?  At  least  he  could 
not  lose  sight  of  her.  He  tracked  her  to  the 
house  under  the  wall,  saw  the  door  scrupulously 
shut  upon  her,  wandered  up  and  down  the  street 
for  half  an  hour,  returned  a  laggard  to  his  palace 
—  and  yet  had  her  full  in  vision.  She  pos- 
sessed him  until  mass-time  following :  the  same 
things  happened.  Guarino  was  hit  hard  ;  he  took 
certain  steps  and  got  information  which  tallied 
with  his  better  instincts.  It  guided  also  his  sub- 
sequent efforts,  for  obviously  the  more  direct  rem- 
edies would  not  meet  his  case.  Therefore,  he 
wrote  to  the  Countess,  as  you  have  seen.  Her 
reply  delighted  him,  and  the  rest  was  very  easy. 
Borso  signed  the  order  of  appointment,  boggling 
only  at  her  name.  "  Buonaroba  I  know,"  said 
he.  "What  am  I  to  think  of  Bellaroba,  Gua- 
nno  r 

"  Your  Grace  shall  be  pleased  to  think  that  his 
daughter  has  chosen  her  for  her  own  person,"  said 
the  Count. 

"  Hum,"  said  Borso,  and  signed  the  parchment. 

Then  came  another  scrawl  for  "  my  love  An- 
gilotto,"  in  which  the  miraculous  news  was  told. 


302  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

"Olimpia  took  it  very  ill,"  she  wrote,  "but  the 
Signor  Capitano  talked  her  happier  —  at  least,  he 
stayed  a  long  time.  I  hope  you  will  think  it  all 
for  the  best.     I  am  very  good,  and  kiss  you  many 

times'  "  Your  Belarobba." 

Olimpia  had  indeed  been  very  cross,  as  Cap- 
tain Mosca  would  have  testified.  She  had  not, 
at  any  rate,  talked  him  any  happier :  that  he 
would  have  upheld  with  an  oath.  The  experi- 
enced man  knew  the  whip  of  sleet  on  his  bare 
skin ;  but  this  was  worse  than  any  winter  cam- 
paign ;  it  left  him  dumb  and  without  the  little 
ease  which  shivering  gives  you.  It  had  not  been 
a  question  so  much  of  talking  as  of  keeping  his 
feet.  Olimpia,  when  the  news  came,  had  raged 
like  a  shrieking  wind  about  the  narrow  house. 
"  My  dearest  life !  Soul  of  my  soul !  "  was  all  the 
Captain  had  to  fend  the  blast.  It  was  no  time 
for  endearments  —  Olimpia  raved  herself  still. 
Tears,  floods  of  them,  followed,  whereat  the  Cap- 
tain melted  also  and  wept.  He  did  foolishly. 
Demoniac  gusts  of  laughing  caught  and  flung 
him  to  the  rafters,  chill  rages  froze  him  where  he 
fell.  He  lost  his  little  store  of  wit,  sagged  like  a 
broken  sunflower,  and  was  finally  pelted  from  the 
door  by  a  storm  of  Venetian  curses,  in  which  all 
his  ancestors,  himself,  and  any  descendants  he 
might  dare  to  have,  were  heavily  involved.  Bella- 
roba,  trembling  in  her  bed,  heard  him  go  with  a 
sinking  heart.  "  Olimpia  will  come  and  murder 
me  now,"  she  said  to  herself. 

But  Olimpia  slept  long  where  she  fell,  and  next 
morning  decided  to  garner  her  rage. 


VI 

ENDS    AND    MEANS 
"  Amor  die  a  null'  amato  amar  perdona." 

Bellaroba,  who  pleased  the  Countess,  for  the 
same  reasons,  no  doubt,  did  not  please  the  Count. 
It  is  possible  to  be  too  demure,  and  very  little 
good  to  have  domestic  charm  if  you  shut  the  door 
upon  the  amateur.  Lionella  had  never  had  so 
much  of  her  lord's  society  as  during  the  month 
that  followed  her  return  to  Ferrara.  She  did  not 
complain  of  this ;  on  the  contrary,  the  more  the 
maid  held  off  and  the  man  pursued,  the  more 
Lionella  was  entertained.  Angioletto,  invited  to 
share  her  sport,  proved  dull.  She  confessed  to 
more  than  one  of  her  women  (including  Bella- 
roba) that  if  she  had  not  been  very  much  in  love 
with  the  poet  she  would  have  thought  him  a  fool. 
You  see  that  she  made  no  secret  of  her  weakness. 
The  fact  is,  she  did  not  consider  it  a  weakness ; 
whereby  you  have  this  remarkable  position  of 
affairs  at  the  Schifanoia,  that  Bellaroba  was  in- 
vited to  be  a  student  of  her  husband's  amours, 
and  he  of  hers.  Considering  the  state  of  their 
secret  hearts  this  might  have  led  to  matter  of 
tragic  concern ;  if  they  had  loved  less  it  would 
have  done  so.  As  it  was,  they  were  quite  indif- 
ferent.    Their  hours  were  a  series  of  breathless 

303 


/ 


304  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

escapades  —  romance  at  fever  heat.  Stolen  meet- 
ings before  dawn  among  the  dewy  rose-bushes, 
chance  touchings,  chance  kisses,  embraces  half 
tasted,  and  looks  often  crossed  —  of  such  were 
their  days  at  the  Schifanoia.  Meantime  a  coiled 
ladder  watched  out  the  sun  from  a  myrtle 
thicket,  of  which  and  its  works  came  their  happy 
nights.  Then,  as  she  lay  in  his  arms,  the  Maid 
of  Honour  vanished  in  the  child  who  was  so  lovely 
because  she  so  loved ;  she  could  prattle,  in  the 
soft  Venetian  brogue,  of  boundless  faith  in  her 
little  lord,  of  her  simple  admiration  of  him  and 
all  he  did,  of  her  wonder  and  delight  to  be  loved. 
She  could  tell  him  of  what  she  could  do,  and  of 
how  much  she  could  never  do,  to  please  him  and 
pay  him  honour.  And  Angioletto  would  nod 
gravely  at  each  point  that  she  made,  and  kiss  her 
now  and  then  very  softly  to  show  her  that  he  was 
perfectly  satisfied.  So  soon  as  the  first  swallow 
twittered  in  the  eaves,  or  the  first  pale  line  of 
light  trembled  at  the  casement,  he  had  to  fly. 
But  he  waited  in  the  rosery  till  she  came  tiptoe 
out ;  and  then  the  day's  alarms  and  the  day's  de- 
light began.  Eh !  It  was  a  royal  month,  a 
honeymoon  indeed ! 

But  it  could  not  last  —  barely  saw  its  round  of 
eight-and-twenty  days.  Lionella  was  a  lady  born, 
as  it  were,  in  the  purple.  Command  sat  lightly 
on  her;  she  had  never  been  disobeyed.  She  now 
grew  querulous,  exacting,  suspicious,  moody,  some- 
times petulant,  sometimes  beseeching.  It  gave 
Angioletto  the  deuce's  own  time  now  and  then ; 
but  he  might  yet  have  weathered  the  rocks — for 
his  tact  was  only  equalled  by  his  good  temper  —  if 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  305 

the  Countess  had  not  precipitated  matters.  There 
came  a  day,  and  an  hour  of  a  day,  when  she  spoke 
to  him.  She  had  spoken  before ;  her  ambitions 
had  always  been  verbal  —  but  now  they  were  lit- 
eral, all  the  "  t's  "  were  crossed.  That  was  a  mo- 
ment for  Angioletto  to  take  with  quick  breath. 

He  took  it  so.  Instead  of  hinting  at  his  duty, 
or  hers,  he  blundered  out  the  fact  that  he  did  not 
love  her. 

"Dog,"  cried  the  Countess,  "do  you  dare  to 
tell  me  that  ?  " 

"  Madama,  I  do  indeed,"  he  answered  sadly,  for 
he  saw  his  house  about  his  ears. 

Lionella  checked  herself;  she  bit  her  lip,  put 
her  hands  ostentatiously  behind  her  back. 

"  You  had  better  leave  the  house,  Master 
Angioletto,"  said  she,  drily,  "  before  I  go  further 
and  see  to  it." 

He  bowed  himself  out.  Then  he  sought  his 
poor  Bellaroba,  found  her  in  the  garden,  drew 
her  aside  without  trouble  of  a  pretext,  and  told 
her  the  whole  story. 

"  My  lovely  dear,"  he  said,  "  I  am  a  broken 
man.  There  has  been  a  terrible  scene  with 
Madama,  in  which  she  got  so  much  the  worst  of 
it  that  I  was  very  triumphantly  ruined.  You  be- 
hold me  decked  with  the  ashes  of  my  scorched 
prosperity.  What  is  to  be  done  with  you  ?  For 
I  must  go." 

"  Oh,  Angioletto,"  cried  Bellaroba,  trembling 
and  catching  at  his  breast,  "  won't  you  —  can't 
you  —  ruin  me  too?  Then  we  shall  be  happy 
again." 

He  pressed  her  to  his  heart.     "  Dearest  dear," 


306  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

he  said,  half  laughing,  half  sobbing,  "you  are 
quite  ruined  enough.  Stay  as  you  are.  I  will 
see  you  every  night.  What !  By  the  Mass,  are 
you  not  my  wife  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  am,  Angioletto.  But  nobody 
thinks  so  —  not  even  any  priest." 

"Eh!"  he  cried,  "but  that  is  all  the  better. 
Only  you  and  I  and  Madonna  the  Virgin  of  the 
Greeks  know  it.  She  never  blabs  secrets,  and 
you  dare  not,  and  I  can't.  So  you  see  it  is  well 
arranged." 

She  loved  him  most  of  all  in  this  gay  humour, 
and  provoked  him  to  new  flights. 

"  But,  you  wild  boy,  how  can  you  see  me  when 
you  are  ruined  ? "  she  asked,  all  her  roses  in 
flower  at  the  fun  of  the  thing.  "  How  can  you 
be  in  the  Schifanoia  if  you  are  thrust  out  of  it  ? " 

Angioletto,  with  a  mysterious  air,  kissed  her 
for  answer.  "  Leave  that  to  me,  my  dear,"  he 
said.  "  Never  have  another  of  the  maids  to  sleep 
with  you,  and  lock  your  chamber  door.  Now  I 
must  go,  because  I  am  kicked  out.  Good-bye, 
my  bride;  I  shall  see  you  long  before  another 
dawn." 

She  let  him  go  at  last,  and  turned  to  her  duties 
with  less  sighing  than  you  would  have  supposed, 
and  no  tears  at  all.  Her  belief  in  the  wisdom, 
audacity,  and  decision  of  her  Angioletto  was 
absolute.  She  had  never  known  him  to  fail. 
Yet  if  she  chanced  to  think  of  the  towering 
Count  Guarini  plying  her  with  flowers  and 
sweatmeats,  she  shivered  to  remember  her  cita- 
del naked  of  all  defences.  This  made  her  feel 
homesick  for  her  lover's  arms.     Like  a  sensible 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  307 

girl,  therefore,  she  thought  of  the  Count  as  little 
as  possible;  still  less  of  another  sinister  appari- 
tion, that  of  the  obsequious  Captain  Mosca,  cran- 
ing his  lean  neck  round  the  corners  of  her  vision, 
grinning  from  ear  to  ear. 

Free  of  the  Schifanoia  (whose  dust  he  was  yet 
careful  to  keep  upon  his  shoes  for  the  sake  of 
her  it  harboured),  Angioletto  walked  briskly  down 
the  street,  shaping  his  course  for  the  Borgo.  He 
had  been  rounding  a  plan  even  while  he  was 
announcing  to  Bellaroba  that  he  had  it  cut  and 
dried;  and  now  he  was  to  execute  it.  True,  it 
was  a  little  extravagant,  depended  too  much,  per- 
haps, upon  other  people's  estimations  of  him 
tallying  with  his  own ;  but  you  will  have  found 
out  by  this  time  that  the  youth  was  a  realist. 
Ideas  stood  for  things  with  him ;  and,  as  he 
said,  if  he  could  not  make  them  stand  so  to 
his  auditory  he  was  no  poet.  This  was  a  heresy 
he  could  not  allow  even  supposititiously.  The 
idea  was  excellent;  the  thing,  therefore,  no  less. 
Therefore  he  concluded  that  he  should  not  fail 
of  his  plan. 

Beyond  the  Porta  Angeli,  in  Borso's  day,  was 
to  be  found  a  huddle  of  tenements  —  fungus- 
growth  upon  the  city  wall  —  single-storied,  single- 
roomed  affairs,  mostly  the  lodging  of  artificers 
in  the  lesser  crafts.  Among  them  all  there  was 
but  one  of  two  floors,  a  substantial  red-brick 
little  house  with  a  most  grandiloquent  chimney- 
stack.  And  very  rightly  it  was  so,  for  it  belonged 
to  the  Court  chimney-sweep. 

On  this  eventful  noon  Sor  Beppo,  the  sweep, 
was  sitting  on  his  doorstep  in  the  sun,  eating  an 


3o8  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

onion,  one  of  many  which  reposed  in  a  vinegar 
bath  on  his  knees.  He  was  quite  black,  save 
where  a  three-days'  beard  lent  a  gleam  of  snow 
to  chaps  and  chin;  being  toothless,  he  was  an 
indifferent  performer  upon  the  onion.  But  his 
hearing  was  as  keen  as  his  eyesight.  He  caught 
Angioletto's  vivacious  heeltaps  upon  the  flags, 
and  peered  from  burly  brows  at  the  smart  little 
gentleman,  cloaked,  feathered,  and  gaudy,  who 
looked  as  suitable  to  his  dusty  surroundings  as 
a  red  poppy  to  a  rubbish  heap. 

Angioletto,  stopping  before  him,  took  off  his 
scarlet  cap  with  a  flourish. 

"  Well,  young  stabbing  blade,"  said  Beppo,  "and 
who  may  you  be  ?  " 

"  Sir,"  replied  the  youth,  "  I  am  a  poet."  Beppo 
rubbed  his  shooting  chin  with  a  noise  like  the 
scraping  of  nutmegs. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  I'll  not  deny  that  it's  a  trade, 
and  a  lawful  trade;  but  for  my  part  I  sweep 
noblemen's  chimneys  and  am  proud  of  it.  Shake 
hands,  poet." 

They  shook  hands,  with  great  cordiality  on  the 
poet's  part. 

"  Sit  down,  poet,"  said  Beppo. 

Angioletto  sat  on  the  doorstep  beside  him 
without  a  word. 

"  Will  you  have  an  onion,  my  friend  ?  "  the  old 
fellow  went  on  to  ask. 

"Thank  you,  Sor  Beppo,  but  I  have  already 
dined.  Let  me  rather  talk  to  you  while  you 
finish  your  meal." 

"  It  is  not  so  much  a  meal  as  a  relish,"  said  the 
sweep.  "But  talk  away  —  we'll  never  quarrel 
over  terms." 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  309 

"I  hope  not,"  Angioletto  took  him  up;  "be- 
cause I  have  done  with  poetising  and  have  a 
mind  to  try  your  trade." 

Beppo,  his  mouth  full  of  onion,  paused  in  his 
bite  to  gape  at  this  dapper  page,  who,  all  scarlet 
and  white  as  he  was,  talked  after  such  a  fashion. 

"How'll  that  be  now?"  he  said.  "You've 
never  come  all  this  way  to  crack  a  joke  ? " 

"  Ah,  never  in  the  world,  my  friend,"  cried 
Angioletto.     "  I  am  in  earnest." 

"  You  may  be  as  earnest  as  a  friar  in  the  pulpit, 
and  yet  pretty  bad  at  chimney- work,  young  mas- 
ter.    What  do  you  know  of  it,  pray  ? " 

"  Nothing  at  all,"  replied  Angioletto,  as  if  that 
helped  him. 

"  Look  at  that  now,"  cried  the  triumphant  Sor 
Beppo. 

"  Pardon  me,  Master  Beppo,"  said  the  youth, 
"  you  cannot  look  at  it  yet,  but  you  very  soon 
shall.     Have  you  a  chimney  to  hand  ? " 

"  Ah,  I  might  have  that,"  the  old  man  agreed, 
with  a  chuckle  which  ended  as  a  snort.  "  There 
might  be  a  chimney  in  my  house  that's  not  been 
swept  for  thirty  year,  having  little  time  and  less 
inclination  to  sweep  'em  for  nothing  but  glory. 
But,  happen  there  were  such  a  piece  of  work, 
what  then  ? " 

Angioletto  pointed  into  the  house.  "  Is  that 
the  chimney,  Beppo  ? " 

Beppo  nodded.  "  That  might  be  the  chimney 
in  question,  my  gentleman." 

With  a  "  By  your  leave,  Sor  Beppo,"  Angioletto 
stepped  delicately  into  the  room.  He  threw  down 
cloak   and    cap,  unstrapped   girdle    and    hanger, 


310  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

stripped  off  his  doublet,  and  stood  up  in  shirt  and 
breeches.  Beppo  watched  him,  all  agape,  too 
breathless  to  chew.     Before  he  could  interfere  — 

"  By  the  Saints,  but  he's  in ! "  he  cried  with 
arms  thrown  up.  "  Eh,  master,  come  you  back, 
come  you  back !  " 

"What  do  you  want?"  a  muffled  voice  came 
from  the  chimney.     Beppo  sawed  the  air. 

"  Don't  you  play  the  fool  up  there,  my  boy, 
don't  you  do  it !  That's  as  foul  as  the  grave,  that 
chimney  is.  I'll  have  ye  on  my  soul  as  long  as  I 
live,  and  I  can  ill  afford  it,  for  I've  a  queasy  con- 
science in  my  black  shell."  He  seemed  to  be 
treading  on  pins. 

He  was  answered,  "  We  will  talk  of  your  con- 
science and  its  shell  when  I  come  back.  Take 
off  my  shoes,  will  you  ? " 

A  neat  leg  was  pushed  into  the  fireplace ;  then 
another.  Beppo  did  the  office,  meek  as  an  aco- 
lyte. Then  he  sighed,  for  the  legs  drew  up  the 
chimney  and  vanished  in  dust. 

"  There  goes  a  lad  of  spirit  to  his  gloomy  end," 
murmured  brokenly  the  sweep,  as  he  looked  at  the 
little  red  shoes  in  his  hand.  "  I  would  not  have 
had  that  come  to  pass  for  twenty  gold  ducats. 
But,  Lord !  who'd  'a  thought  it  of  a  Court  spark, 
that  he  should  be  as  good  as  his  word  ?  Not  I, 
used  to  Courts  as  a  man  may  be."  He  fell  to 
scratching  his  head. 

"  Hey,  hey !  "  he  cried,  as  there  was  a  prodigious 
scuffling  up  the  chimney.  "  Now  he  strangles, 
now  he  strangles ! "  A  shower  of  soot  came 
down.  Beppo  flacked  about  the  room  ;  then  two 
heavy  objects  fell.     Beppo  crept  up.     "  Mary  Vir- 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  311 

gin,  he's  killing  birds,"  he  said,  in  an  awed  whisper, 
and  picked  up  two  owls  with  wagging  heads.  The 
recesses  of  the  chimney  were  still  very  lively. 
"  Eh,  there  he  is  again,"  said  the  old  sweep. 
"  What  now  ? "  Down  came  a  rat,  squeaking  for 
its  life,  then  three  in  succession,  very  silent  because 
their  necks  were  wrung.  "  This  is  better  than  a 
cat  any  day  of  the  seven,"  said  Sor  Beppo.  "  What 
a  diamond  of  a  poet !  He  should  be  crowned 
with  laurel-twigs  if  I  were  Duke  Borso  in  all  his 
glory.  Being  but  Beppo  the  sweep,  he  shall  be 
free  of  my  mystery  the  moment  he's  free  of  my 
chimney-stack." 

He  could  await  Angioletto's  coming  now  with 
equal  mind.  The  lad  had  approved  himself.  I 
leave  you  to  judge  of  the  welcome  he  got  when, 
breathless,  scratched,  and  sable  as  the  night,  he 
showed  his  white  teeth  at  the  door.  Beppo,  in 
fact,  fell  weeping  on  his  neck.  By  this  simple 
device  Angioletto  was  enabled  to  keep  his  word, 
and  Bellaroba  to  find  him  black  but  comely. 


VII 

THE    CAPTAIN'S    TREADINGS 

While  Angioletto  and  his  Bellaroba  dwelt  in 
a  paradise,  none  the  less  glorious  for  being  as 
sooty  as  the  darkness  which  veiled  it,  the  estate 
of  Captain  Mosca,  that  hungry  swordsman,  was 
most  unhappy.  Divorced  from  bed  and  board, 
cast  off  by  his  mistress,  and  not  yet  adopted  by 
his  master,  the  poor  man  felt  dimly  about  for 
supports,  conscious  that  his  treadings  had  well- 
nigh  slipped.  At  such  a  time  the  gentle  eyes  of 
Bellaroba  —  nobody's  enemy  —  courted  him,  like 
a  beam  of  firelight  on  a  rain-scoured  street,  with 
a  smiling  invitation  to  share  the  peace  within 
doors.  He  hung  uneasily  about  the  gateways  in 
these  days,  cold-elbowed  by  the  lackeys,  ignored 
by  the  higher  sort,  unseen  by  the  quality ;  he  bur- 
nished the  lintels  with  his  shoulder-blades,  chewed 
many  straws,  counted  the  flagstones,  knew  the 
hours  by  the  signals  of  his  stomach.  Then,  if  by 
hazard  Bellaroba  should  come  dancing  by  with  a 
"  Good  morning,  Signor  Capitano,"  a  "  Come  sta?' 
or,  prettier  still,  a  bright  "Sta  bene  ?  "  what  wonder 
if  the  man  of  rage  humbled  himself  before  the 
little  Maid  of  Honour  ?  What  wonder,  again,  if 
she,  out  of  the  overflowings  of  her  happiness, 
should  give  him  an  alms  ? 

No  wonder  at  all,  but  pity  there  should  be ;  for 

312 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  BORSO  313 

the  Captain  played  an  unworthy  part.  I  suppose 
his  standard  was  not  very  high.  I  know  he  was 
hungry ;  I  know  that  nothing  degrades  a  man  so 
low  as  degradation  —  since  what  he  believes  him- 
self, that  he  is ;  but  I  find  it  hard  to  excuse  him 
for  draining  Bellaroba  of  her  little  secrets.  Judas 
that  he  was,  he  took  her  sop,  and  then  sold  her 
for  thirty  pieces  of  silver. 

The  draining  of  a  well  so  limpid  was  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world.  She  was  too  absurdly  happy, 
too  triumphant  altogether  in  the  successful  craft 
of  her  brilliant  little  lord,  to  be  continent.  She 
dealt  in  semi-transparent  mystery  with  her  manip- 
ulator from  the  moment  he  had  won  her  com- 
passion. Her  secret  was  none  from  the  first,  or 
it  was  like  the  secret  which  a  child  will  tell  you, 
all  the  louder  for  being  said  in  your  ear. 

"  My  dear  little  friend,"  said  the  smirking  Cap- 
tain, when  he  had  it,  "  what  you  tell  me  there  is 
as  wine  in  my  blood.  I  declare  it  sets  me  singing 
tunes." 

"  Ah,  but  he  is  wonderful,  my  Angioletto,"  said 
she,  and  her  eyes  grew  larger  for  the  thought  of 
him. 

"  For  a  stripling  of  his  inches  he  beats  any  cock 
that  ever  fought  a  main,"  Mosca  declared  ;  "  blood 
of  Blood,  but  he  does  !  What  and  if  he  did  square 
up  to  me  —  do  I  bear  a  grudge?  Never,  upon 
my  body." 

"  You  will  not  —  you  would  not  —  ah,  tell  Olim- 
pia  of  this,  Signor  Capitano  ? "  she  hazarded.  The 
Captain  stroked  one  eye  with  the  back  of  his 
finger.  He  looked  pityingly  upon  her  with  the 
other. 


3i4  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

"  Ah,  my  dear  soul,"  he  said,  sighing,  "  could 
you  think  it  of  old  Mosca  ? " 

Bellaroba  hastened  to  disclaim.  "  No,  no,  no, 
I  did  not  think  it,  Signor  Capitano.  But  for  a 
minute  I  had  a  little  fear.  Olimpia  never  loved 
Angioletto  at  all,  and  I  don't  think  she  loves  me 
very  much  —  now." 

"  To  be  plain  with  you,  my  lamb,"  said  the 
Mosca,  "  she  has  no  such  vasty  love  for  me.  I 
have  not  set  foot  within  her  door  since  a  certain 
day  you  may  remember." 

The  girl  shivered.  "  If  I  remember  it !  Ah, 
Madonna  delle  Grazie,  she  had  a  devil  that  day !  " 

"  She  had  seven,  I'm  sure  of  it,"  cried  the  Cap- 
tain. "  So  I  leave  you  to  judge  how  much  of 
your  story  she  may  worm  out  of  me." 

He  so  beamed  upon  her,  kissed  her  hands  with 
such  a  lofty  stoop,  that  she  felt  ashamed  of  her- 
self, and  begged  his  pardon. 

This  brought  the  Captain  to  his  knees.  "  By 
the  God  who  made  the  Jews,"  he  swore,  "  I  leave 
not  this  raw  flagstone  till  you  have  unsaid  those 
words ! " 

In  the  end,  after  a  prodigious  fuss,  he  drifted 
away  down  the  corridor  and  left  her  to  go  about 
her  business. 

But  he  drifted  not  very  far.  He  felt  himself 
full  of  affairs  which  were  as  meat  and  drink  to  his 
spirit  starved  by  neglect.  It  was  so  great  a  thing 
to  have  a  pretext  for  approaching  Count  Guarini. 
That  young  lord  had  a  way  like  a  keen-edged 
knife.  You  might  weave  a  whole  vestment  about 
your  errand,  fold  upon  fold  of  ingenious  surmise, 
argument  pro,  argument  con ;   Guarino   Guarini 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  BORSO  315 

would  dart  eyes  upon  you  —  slash !  he  had  rent 
your  fabric  and  discovered  you  naked  underneath, 
a  liar  ready  for  the  whip.  Nor,  to  do  him  justice, 
did  he  ever  fail  to  apply  it.  Truth  was,  indeed, 
the  only  key  to  Guarino's  chamber. 

Truth,  and  timely  truth,  was  what  the  Captain 
felt  he  had  at  last.  With  it  he  braved  the  super- 
cilious doorkeeper ;  with  it  he  forced  the  fellow  to 
lift  his  intolerable  eyelids. 

"  By  the  powers  of  darkness,  my  friend,"  he 
said,  "  it  will  be  a  bad  day's  work  for  you  if  you 
deny  me  this  time."  So  he  won  his  admission 
and  faced  his  master. 

"  Now,  Mosca,  your  lie,"  said  the  Count,  with  his 
cold-steel  delivery.     Mosca  did  not  stumble. 

"  Master,"  he  said,  "  I  can  do  you  service." 

"  Do  it  then,"  whipped  in  the  Count. 

"  I  can  tell  your  Excellence  why  he  succeeds 
no  better  with  La  Bellaroba." 

"  Ah  ! '  The  Count  was  suspicious,  but  inter- 
ested. 

"  The  little  lady  has  a  lover." 

"  Body  of  a  dog !  " 

"  Body  of  Angioletto,  Excellence." 

"  Angioletto  ?  That  spaniel  ?  How  many 
more  laps  will  he  cradle  in?  Cut  his  tongue 
out,  my  good  fellow,  and  then  come  to  me 
again." 

"  Excellence,  may  I  speak  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so.     Speak." 

The  Captain  waited  no  further  invitation,  but 
told  the  whole  story  from  the  beginning.  Gua- 
rino  thought  upon  it  for  a  moment. 

"  He  will  come  to-night  ?  "  he  asked. 


3i6  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

"  Certain,  Excellence." 

"  Then  we  have  him.  You  have  done  well, 
Mosca  —  it  was  time,  my  friend,  for  you  are  an 
expensive  hack  to  keep  at  grass.  Now  listen. 
Take  Bellaroba  away  —  command  of  the  Con- 
tessa,  of  course.  Take  her  to  the  little  house  in 
the  Borgo.  Make  all  fast,  and  return  here  in 
time  for  the  steeple-jack.  When  you  have  him 
in  the  trap,  run  him  through  the  body,  raise  the 
devil's  uproar,  and  denounce  him  to  the  patrol. 
Do  you  understand  me  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,  Excellence." 

"  Take  my  purse  from  the  table  and  off  with 
you,  then." 

Captain  Mosca  bowed  to  the  ground  and 
backed  out. 


VIII 

FIRST    MIDNIGHT    CONVERSATION 

The  Borgo  of  Borso's  day  was,  as  you  might 
say,  a  sucker  of  the  city  of  the  Po,  a  flowery  crop 
of  villas  and  gardens  about  the  city's  root.  There 
was  the  discreet  house  which  Captain  Mosca  had 
once  chosen  for  his  Olimpia ;  there  also  was  that 
which  Guarino  Guarini  maintained  for  his  (or 
any)  Bellaroba.  It  is  probable  that  there  were 
many  such  houses  in  the  Borgo;  it  was  a  very 
pleasant  place,  heavy  scented  with  lilac  and 
hawthorn  in  the  spring,  drowsy  all  the  summer 
through  with  rustling  leaves  and  the  murmur  of 
innumerable  bees.  The  place  was  quiet ;  there 
was  no  traffic,  no  hint  of  the  city  bustle  ;  on  the 
other  hand,  there  was  the  notoriety  which  must 
always  attach  to  any  act  done  where  no  others 
are  doing.  Time,  day-time  especially,  hangs 
heavy  in  the  Borgo.  One  machinates  in  the  face 
of  many  green  shutters,  which  are  not  necessarily 
dead  because  they  are  shut. 

This  reasoning  does  not  attack  the  sagacity  of 
Count  Guarini,  for  the  only  circumstance  which 
could  give  it  force  was  entirely  unknown  to  him. 
He  did  not  know  that  the  Borgo  held  Bellaroba's 
friend,  Olimpia,  or  that  it  sheltered  under  the 
same  roof  Olimpia,  the  Captain's  enemy.  He 
knew  nothing  of    Bellaroba's   friends  and  cared 

3»7 


318  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

nothing  for  the  Captain's  enemies.  But,  as  a 
matter  of  history,  the  proceedings  of  Mosca  upon 
that  eventful  day  were  of  the  greatest  possible 
interest  to  Signorina  Castaneve.  Donna  Matura, 
trust  her,  had  not  failed  to  report  his  first  appear- 
ance, stork-like,  in  the  Borgo.  No  subsequent 
voyage  of  his  into  those  parts  (and  he  made 
many)  was  lost  upon  Olimpia.  Captain  Mosca, 
honest  man,  made  a  preposterous  accomplice. 
His  rusty  cloak,  the  white  of  his  observant 
eye,  the  craning  of  his  neck,  the  very  angle  of 
his  sword  —  cocked  up  for  frolic  like  a  wren's 
tail  —  spoke  the  profuse  conspirator.  He  spent 
money  liberally,  seemed  to  have  plenty  more, 
had  his  finger  to  his  nose  with  every  other 
word.  He  brought  a  troop  of  underlings;  a  bevy 
of  young  women  under  his  orders  turned  the 
little  shuttered  house  out  of  doors  —  at  every 
window  carpets,  curtains,  hangings  of  all  sorts, 
fluttered  as  if  for  a  triumphal  procession.  Flow- 
ers came  in  stacks:  "H'm!  "  said  Olimpia,  "there's 
a  woman  in  this."  A  couple  of  asses  brought 
skins  of  wine.  "  That  will  be  wash  for  the  lean 
hog  himself,"  she  added.  From  that  time  forth 
she  never  left  her  shutter.  To  make  herself  the 
more  sure  she  gave  orders  to  Donna  Matura  to 
close  all  the  shutters  alike.  Captain  Mosca,  on 
one  of  his  returns  to  the  Borgo,  looked  up  at  the 
blind  green  eyes  of  his  former  haven  and,  chuck- 
ling, rubbed  his  hands.  This  artless  outlet  to 
his  feelings  was  interpreted  for  what  it  was  worth 
behind  the  shutter. 

By  six  of  the  evening  Mosca,  seeing  Olimpia's 
house  still  keep  a  dead  face,  threw  off  the  last 


THE   JUDGMENT   OF  BORSO  319 

remnant  of  his  cares  and  bade  himself  be  merry. 
"  My  handsome  friend  is  either  asleep  or  on  a 
journey,  it  appears,"  said  he  to  himself.  "  That, 
on  the  whole,  is  well.  I  cannot  think  she  would 
be  pleased  at  the  advent  of  little  Bellaroba  riding 
pillion  to  me.  Still  less  would  the  honour  about 
to  be  paid  the  young  lady  afford  her  any  gratifi- 
cation. Least  of  all  would  her  observations  on 
the  subject  tend  to  clear  the  air.  No,  no.  Every- 
thing is  for  the  best,  it  seems,  and  the  world  still 
a  tolerable  place.  Now  for  my  little  wood-bird." 
He  paid  and  dismissed  his  work-people,  then  rode 
off  himself  to  fetch  Bellaroba.  And  Olimpia, 
from  her  shutter,  watched  him  go. 

There  was  no  trouble  on  the  child's  score. 
The  Countess  was  away ;  a  feigned  message  from 
her  was  enough.  Had  she  been  at  home  and  in 
a  good  humour,  she  would  have  accorded  a  real 
one,  no  doubt ;  so  the  deceit  was  quite  harmless. 
Bellaroba  demurred  a  little  that  she  could  not 
in  person  warn  Angioletto,  but  the  Captain 
begged  her  to  have  no  fears.  Time  pressed; 
it  was  evident  the  Countess's  service  was  urgent. 
Yet  the  Captain  swore  by  all  that  he  held  sacred 
—  to  be  sure  no  great  things,  but  Bellaroba 
could  not  know  that  —  to  deliver  her  message  to 
the  lad  with  his  own  hand.  "  For,"  said  he,  and 
confirmed  it  with  an  oath, "  if  I  don't  see  him  this 
very  night  it  will  be  a  pity : "  words  which  were 
afterwards  thought  to  have  been  prophetic  by  the 
curious  in  such  matters.  So  Bellaroba  entrusted 
him  with  her  scrawl  to  "  My  love  Angilotto,"  and 
the  Captain  chewed  and  swallowed  it  when  she 
was  not  looking.     Then  he  lifted  her  to  his  horse 


320  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

and  rode  with  her  into  the  green  sheltered  Borgo, 
just  as  it  was  settling  into  twilight.  And  Olim- 
pia,  from  her  shutter,  saw  them  come. 

I  spare  you  the  picture  of  her  fury :  it  was  not 
seemly,  for  all  it  was  very  white  and  still.  The 
sight  of  a  handsome  girl  shuddering  in  a  cold 
stare  under  the  grip  of  an  evil  spirit  can  never 
be  pleasant;  and  where  the  experienced  Donna 
Matura  shrank  from  what  she  saw  and  heard,  it 
becomes  not  me  to  tread.  Donna  Matura  was 
of  her  country,  that  cheerful,  laughing  Midland 
of  the  Po,  and  neither  felt  the  Venetian  throb  of 
pleasure  nor  conceived  the  excesses  of  Venetian 
pain.  Extremes  touch  on  the  Lagoon.  Donna 
Matura  saw  her  gold-haired  mistress  white  and 
drawn,  saw  her  witless  shaking,  saw  her  tear  and 
rend  herself,  heard  her  jerked  words  of  loathing, 
blasphemy,  and  obscene  defiance  —  and  fairly 
fled  the  house.  "  For,"  as  she  said,  "  if  words 
of  man  or  woman  could  bring  the  rafters  about 
our  ears,  or  open  a  pit  to  send  us  lightly  whither 
we  all  must  go  who  have  heard  them,  those  words 
which  Madam  Olimpia  spat  about  her  must 
surely  do  it."  So  much  she  confessed  to  after- 
wards, but  no  more;  for  she  stayed  nothing 
more. 

Olimpia  may  have  leaned  twisting  against  her 
wall  for  about  an  hour,  mouthing  insane  babble 
from  her  blued  lips.  It  was  at  least  quite  dark 
when  she  came  to  herself,  lit  the  lamp,  wiped 
the  cold  beads  from  her  forehead,  smoothed  and 
bound  her  hair.  She  was  not  herself,  nor  looked 
to  be  so;  she  had  a  face  completely  colourless, 
lips   like   grey  mould,   and   burning  black  eyes. 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  BORSO  321 

But  her  hand  was  steady ;  she  hardly  winked ; 
her  breath,  which  came  through  her  nose,  was 
even,  though  it  whistled  rather  sharply.  What- 
ever she  was  about  —  and  she  seemed  to  be  act- 
ing a  part  —  she  did  with  extraordinary  care, 
down  to  the  changing  of  her  crimson  dress  for 
a  dark  green  one.  The  former  had  been  loose 
and  clinging,  made  of  velvet ;  the  dark  green  was 
of  cloth,  fitted  her  close  and,  as  she  ascertained 
by  a  few  gestures,  gave  free  play  to  her  arms. 
She  knocked  off  her  heeled  Venetian  shoes, 
whose  clatter  was  familiar  to  the  house,  and 
bound  on  flat-soled  sandals  instead.  Over  her 
head  she  had  a  black  lace  scarf,  on  her  hands 
leather  gauntlets.  Lastly,  she  took  from  a  press 
a  long,  double-edged  knife,  felt  its  temper,  and 
stuck  it  inside  her  stocking,  under  the  garter. 
She  made  a  final  hasty  sweep  of  the  room  with 
her  unquiet  eyes  as  she  went  out  of  it. 

The  door  of  the  house  she  knocked  upon  was 
opened  by  a  page,  who  asked  her  business. 

"  Mosca,  Captain  Mosca,  is  my  business,"  said 
she  in  a  whisper. 

"  The  Signor  Capitano  is  occupied,  Madonna," 
replied  the  boy. 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it,"  she  answered.  "  But 
my  business  is  the  lady's  business  also.  I  must 
see  them  both  —  and  at  once.     Let  me  pass." 

The  page  vowed  and  swore  by  all  the  company 
of  Heaven  that  those  were  her  actual  words. 
He  was  put  to  the  torture  and  cried  in  the  most 
heartrending  manner;  but  he  held  to  it,  so  long 
as  he  could  hold  to  anything,  that  the  visitor  had 
said  "  her  business  was  the  other  lady's  business.'' 


322  LITTLE   NOVELS   OF   ITALY 

What  a  further  application  of  the  question  might 
have  brought  we  cannot  tell,  since  he  fainted 
before  it  could  be  tried.  "  The  boy  Gasparo  ap- 
peared to  take  no  further  interest  in  the  elucida- 
tion of  the  truth,"  reported  the  judges,  "  and 
we  recommend  that  he  be  chastised  for  contu- 
macy." He  was,  at  any  rate,  no  witness  of  the 
scene  which  followed  Olimpia's  entry.  There 
was  that  about  her,  a  subdued  haste,  a  delibera- 
tion, a  kind  of  intensity  got  by  rote,  which  fas- 
cinated the  youngster  and  left  him  staring  in  the 
hall. 

Olimpia  walked  across  it  alone,  went  straight 
to  a  door  at  the  bottom  on  the  right-hand  side, 
turned  the  handle,  and  entered.  There  was  a 
table  spread  with  supper;  there  was  Captain 
Mosca  seated  at  it  eating  a  peach  from  his  wine- 
glass ;  there  was  Bellaroba,  flushed  and  marred 
with  tears,  leaning  against  the  further  wall.  She 
gave  a  little  gasp  of  fear  when  she  saw  what  the 
doorway  framed;  after  that  she  followed  Olim- 
pia about  the  room  with  the  same  incurable  fas- 
cination which  the  page-boy  had  felt.  Olimpia 
shut  the  door  as  softly  as  she  had  opened  it,  and 
as  softly  shot  the  bolt. 

Then  it  seemed  that  Mosca  felt  her  presence, 
for  he  turned,  saw,  and  jumped  up  with  a  cry 
mingled  of  fear  and  rage.  It  was  found  out  af- 
terwards that  he  was  unarmed.  This  will  ex- 
plain his  alarm.  Disastrous  honesty !  his  sword 
was  upstairs  in  the  bed. 

There  followed  a  most  curious  scene.  The 
Captain  stood  up  by  the  table  and  dogged  Olim- 
pia with  his  narrow  eyes.     When  she  advanced, 


THE   JUDGMENT   OF   BORSO  323 

he  backed;  when  she  stopped,  he  stopped.  In 
this  manner,  eying  each  other  without  a  blink, 
they  made  the  round  of  the  table.  Bellaroba  cow- 
ered by  the  wall ;  pursued  and  pursuer  brushed 
against  her  in  turn.  She  shivered  and  moaned 
a  little  at  every  touch ;  but  they  were  too  intent 
upon  their  game  to  know  that  she  was  there.  In 
the  second  round,  Mosca,  who  was  again  close 
to  her,  reached  out  his  hand  for  a  knife  from  the 
table.  Quick  as  thought  Olimpia  was  at  him, 
reached  across  and  drove  her  knife  through  his 
hand  into  the  wood.  Mosca  howled,  but  his  fear 
by  now  was  such  that  he  must  be  free  to  run  as 
before,  though  he  maimed  himself.  He  tore  his 
hand  away  and  left  Olimpia  holding  a  fixed  blade. 
She  wrenched  it  out  and  made  a  pounce.  The 
miserable  Mosca  turned  to  Bellaroba.  He  laid 
what  he  had  left  of  hands  upon  her  shoulders; 
he  pulled  her  from  the  wall;  he  set  her  before 
him  and  hugged  her  close  to  his  breast.  Thus 
he  made  her  back  a  shield  against  the  long 
knife,  and  with  her  he  fenced  and  held  off  his 
enemy  for  minutes  more.  Olimpia,  horribly  busy, 
scorched  the  girl's  neck  with  her  breath  —  but 
she  never  made  to  hurt  her. 

Then  came  the  end.  Olimpia  made  a  lunge 
at  his  right  side.  The  Captain  hugged  Bella- 
roba there.  At  the  next  moment  the  long  knife 
was  below  his  left  arm,  buried  to  the  hilt,  and 
defender  and  defence  rolled  heavily  to  the  floor. 
Olimpia  walked  to  the  table  and  helped  herself 
to  the  Captain's  Val  Pulicella. 

The  watch  (whom  the  page  had  roused  after 
Mosca's  first  cry)  broke  in  by  the  window,  disen- 


324 


LITTLE   NOVELS   OF   ITALY 


tangled  Bellaroba,  bound  the  hands  of  both  pris- 
oners behind  their  backs,  and  marched  them  and 
the  boy  off  to  the  Castle.  Count  Guarini,  com- 
ing in  an  hour  later,  found  his  murdered  lieuten- 
ant  for  his  only  guest. 


IX 

SECOND    MIDNIGHT     CONVERSATION 

In  that  same  night  of  mine  and  countermine 
Duke  Borso,  who  had  broken  up  the  circle  early 
by  reason  of  his  toothache,  went  wandering  the 
long  corridors  of  the  Schifanoia  under  the  sting  of 
his  scourge.  He  found  his  spacious  pleasure- 
house  valueless  against  that  particular  annoy,  but 
(as  always)  he  was  the  more  whimsical  for  his 
affliction.  Nothing  works  your  genuine  man  of 
humour  so  nearly  as  himself.  The  sight  of  his 
own  image,  puffed  and  blinking  in  nightcap,  bed- 
gown, and  slippers,  when  he  came  upon  it  in  a 
long  mirror,  set  him  chuckling.  He  paused  be- 
fore the  absurd  epitome  to  apostrophise,  wagged 
a  finger  at  it,  and  got  wag  for  wag.  "  We  might 
be  two  drolls  in  a  pantomime ! "  said  he  to  his 
double.  "  Your  arm,  gossip :  "  he  crooked  an 
elbow.  "  It  seems,"  he  continued,  "  that  we  are 
both  sufferers,  my  poor  fellow!  Magnificence 
goes  drooping ;  a  swollen  estate  does  not  forbid  a 
jowl  of  the  same  proportions ;  and  give  me  leave 
to  tell  you,  brother,  that  we  have  each  of  us  been 
better  dressed  in  our  day.  Fie !  what  a  pair  of 
quills  below  your  gown ;  and  what  a  sorry  diadem 
to  stand  for  two  duchies  and  a  marquisate  of 
uncertain    age !     Duke    and    my   brother,   if   we 

325 


326  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

were  to  be  spied  upon  by  any  of  our  Court  just 
now,  what  sort  of  a  reverence  should  we  get, 
think  you?  Eh,  you  rogue,  as  much  as  we 
deserve  !  I  will  tell  you,  good  Borso,  my  own  poor 
opinion  of  these  things.  A  Duke  who  cannot  be 
dukely  in  his  shirt,  a  Pope  who  is  but  an  afflicted 
biped  between  the  blankets,  is  no  Duke  at  all,  is  a 
Pope  by  toleration.  There  should  be  some  such 
test  at  every  crowning  of  our  sort.  Souse  a 
Bishop  in  his  bath  before  you  let  him  warm  his 
chair ;  cry  '  Fire ! '  on  the  stairs  of  the  Vatican 
and  watch  your  Pontiff-elect  scudding  over  the 
Piazza  in  his  sark,  before  the  Conclave  sing  Veni 
Creator.  Judge  of  your  Emperor  with  a  swollen 
nose,  blacken  your  Dukes  in  the  eye :  if  they  re- 
main Dukes  and  Emperors  you  may  safely  obey 
them.  They  are  men,  Borso,  they  are  men  !  Yes, 
you  spindle-shanked  rascal,  you  may  well  wince. 
Do  you  ponder  how  you  would  stand  assay  ?  So 
do  I  ponder  it,  brother,  and  doubt  horribly."  He 
clapped  his  hand  to  his  face.  "  Steady  now, 
steady,  here  comes  another  bout.  Ah,  Madonna 
of  the  Este  —  but  this  is  a  shrewd  twinge !  Fare 
you  well,  brother  Fat-chops.  I  must  walk  this 
devil  out  of  me."  He  waved  a  hand  to  his 
brother  of  the  looking-glass  and  slippered  away, 
groaning  and  sniggering  to  himself.  So  he 
walked  and  was  philosophical  till  two  of  the 
morning.  At  that  hour  he  was  ready  to  drop 
with  fatigue  ;  but  his  pains  had  left  him.  "  I  will 
sleep,  by  the  grace  of  Heaven,"  he  said.  He 
plumped  down  in  the  embrasure  of  a  door,  pre- 
pared to  follow  his  humour :  the  door  yielded  and 
he  with  it.     "  Who   am    I    to   outrage   a   lady's 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  327 

chamber  ?  "  he  muttered,  half  asleep.  "  To  be 
sure  she  seems  to  invite  me.  Let  us  look  at  this 
complaisant  sleeper."  He  went  into  the  room. 
A  glimmering  lamp  burned  before  a  shrine, 
enough  to  show  him  to  a  decent  four-post  bed, 
empty.  "  By  the  great  god  Pan ! "  cried  Borso, 
"my  luck  holds.  Courage!  I  am  not  a  Duke 
for  nothing,  then."  He  shut  and  bolted  the  door, 
slipped  into  the  bed  and  was  asleep  in  three 
minutes.     It  was  twenty  minutes  after  two. 

At  the  stroke  of  three,  with  a  scarcely  percep- 
tible rustling,  Angioletto  slid  down  the  chimney 
and  stepped  into  the  room.  He  carefully  brushed 
himself  with  a  brush  which  hung  by  the  hearth. 
The  chimney  was  by  now  thoroughly  clean,  how- 
ever. He  next  washed  his  face  and  hands,  un- 
dressed, and  crept  softly  to  the  bed.  Very 
quietly  he  inserted  himself  between  the  sheets, 
very  softly  kissed  the  shoulder  of  the  sleeper; 
very  soon  he  was  as  sound  as  his  bedfellow. 

The  Duke  awoke,  as  his  habit  was,  with  the 
first  light,  and  saw  the  curly  head  on  the  pillow 
beside  him.     He  whistled  softly  to  himself. 

"  Now,  by  the  tears  of  the  Virgin,"  said  he, 
"  how  did  this  lady  come  in  ?  It  would  be  as  well 
to  know  it,  since  plainly  I  must  go  out."  He  sat 
up  in  bed,  clasped  his  knees,  and  frowned  a  little. 
"  It  is  clean  against  the  traditions  of  my  house," 
he  ruminated,  "  but  I  think  I  will  go.  And  the 
sooner  the  better." 

Suiting  action  to  word,  he  had  one  foot  on 
the  floor  when  Angioletto,  with  a  long  sigh, 
opened  his  eyes,  turned  over,  and  saw  him. 

"  The  devil !  "  said  Duke  Borso. 


328  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

"  Madonna,"  was  his  second  venture,  when  he 
had  recognised  the  impropriety  of  his  first,  "  Ma- 
donna, I  am  this  moment  about  to  retire  — " 

Angioletto,  whose  eyes  had  attained  their 
fullest  stretch  of  wonder,  opened  his  mouth — but 
not  to  speak.     He  gaped  at  the  lord  of  the  land. 

"  Madonna  —  "  Borso  began  once  more.  Then 
the  other  found  his  voice  — 

"  Alas,  my  lord  Duke,  it  is  Madonna  I  thought 
to  find.     Where  is  my  wife  ?  " 

That  was  Borso's  cue  to  stare. 

"  Your  wife  ?  "  he  cried,  "  your  wife !  Heaven 
above  us,  man,  why  the  devil  should  your  wife  be 
in  my  bed  ?  " 

Angioletto,  with  the  deepest  respect  always, 
suffered  a  smile  to  play  askew  about  his  lips. 

"  Alas,  Magnificence,"  he  said,  "  if  I  dared  I 
would  ask  him,  why  the  devil  he  should  be  in  my 
wife's  bed  ?  " 

It  was  the  youth's  way  to  preface  his  audacities 
by  the  assurance  that  he  dared  not  utter  them. 
But  the  retort  pleased  Borso.  His  eyes  began  to 
twinkle. 

"  Look  ye,  young  gentleman,"  said  he,  sup- 
pressing his  wish  to  chuckle,  "if  this  is  your 
wife's  bed,  I  am  sorry  for  you,  for  I  give  you  my 
word  she  has  not  been  in  it  to-night.  But  I  con- 
fess I  should  like  to  know  why  your  wife  has  a 
bed  in  my  house." 

Angioletto  nodded  gravely. 

"  I  should  be  the  last  person  to  deny  your 
Grace's  right  to  all  information.  Bellaroba  is  my 
dear  wife's  name,  her  country  is  Venice,  her 
duties  are  to  be  about  Madama  Lionella's  person. 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  329 

My  own  duties  are  to  be  about  hers,  so  far  as  I 
may." 

"Fair  and  softly,  my  friend,"  said  the  Duke; 
"  not  so  fast,  if  you  please.  Do  you  know  that 
Maids  of  Honour  may  not  marry  without  permis- 
sion, and,  in  any  case,  may  not  be  visited  by  their 
husbands  during  their  service  ?  " 

"  Magnificence,  she  was  not  married  without 
permission.  Or  rather,  she  was  married  before 
permission  was  needed." 

"  Eh,  how  may  that  be  now  ? "  said  Borso, 
tucking  in  his  chin.  "  Did  she  come  here  as 
Signora  Qualcosa  ? " 

"  She  came  here  as  Bellaroba,  Magnificence. 
No  one  knows  of  our  marriage  but  your  Grace 
and  the  Holy  Virgin." 

"  Then  you  are  not  married,  but  should  be. 
That  is  your  meaning  —  eh  ?  " 

"  Ah,  by  Heaven,  Magnificence,"  cried  Angio- 
letto,  "we  are  the  most  married  couple  in  the 
world ! " 

"  H'm,"  was  all  Borso  had  to  say  to  that. 
"  And  who  made  her  of  Madama's  Court  ? " 

"  It  was  your  Grace." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  of  course,  man !  But  why  the 
deuce  did  I  do  it? " 

"  It  was  at  the  request  of  Count  Guarino 
Guarini,  Magnificence  ? " 

"  Eh,  eh !  now  I  recollect.  Ah,  to  be  sure ! 
That  must  be  a  very  agreeable  reflection  for  you 
at  this  moment,  my  friend,"  he  said,  with  a  sly  look. 

Angioletto  took  the  equivoque  with  dignity, 
"  I  have  perfect  confidence  in  my  wife,  my  lord 
Duke." 


33Q  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

Borso  shrugged.  "Well,  it  is  your  affair — not 
mine,"  he  said.  Then  he  changed  his  tone.  "  I 
think,  however,  we  will  come  back  to  what  is  my 
affair  as  well  as  yours.  Be  so  good  as  to  tell  me 
how  you  came  here." 

"  I  came  down  the  chimney,"  said  Angioletto 
calmly.     "  I  am  by  calling  a  chimney-sweep." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  Borso  said,  "  this  is  a  fine 
story  I  am  piecing  together!  How  long  have 
you  been  of  that  trade,  pray  ? " 

Angioletto  received  this  shot  with  firmness, 
even  dignity.  "  I  was  formerly  a  poet  attached 
to  the  Court,  Magnificence.  But  when  Madama 
turned  me  away  it  became  necessary  that  I 
should  see  my  young  wife ;  so  I  became  a  chim- 
ney-sweep for  the  purpose." 

The  Duke's  mouth  twitched  too  much  for  his 
own  dignity.  He  pulled  the  bedclothes  up  to 
his  nose,  therefore,  before  he  asked  — 

"  Why  did  Madama  turn  you  away,  sir?  " 

Angioletto,  for  the  first  time,  was  confused. 
He  hung  his  head. 

"  I  hope  your  Grace  will  not  insist  upon  an 
answer,"  he  replied  in  a  troubled  voice. 

Borso  looked  keenly  at  him  for  a  time.  "  No, 
I  think  I  will  not,"  said  he.  "  Are  you  the  lad 
who  sang  me  the  Caccia  col/alcone  ?  " 

"  The  same,  my  lord  Duke." 

"  I  thought  so.  Now,  sir,  to  come  back  to  this 
performance  of  yours,  which  I  suppose  is  not  the 
first  by  any  means  —  eh  ?  " 

"It  appears  to  be  the  last,  my  lord,"  said 
Angioletto,  ruefully. 

"  I  think  it  is  the  last,"  replied  the  Duke;  "for 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  BORSO  331 

I   hope  you   understand   that    I   can    have   you 
clapped  into  gaol  for  it." 

"  Pardon,  Magnificence  —  he  can  do  more. 
He  can  have  me  hanged  for  it." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you,"  said  Borso.  "  If  my 
name  were  Ferdinand  of  Arragon,  or  Sforza,  or 
della  Rovere,  yes ;  but  being  Borso  d'Este,  no." 

"  Your  Grace  puts  me  to  shame,"  said  Angio- 
letto,  with  feeling.     "  I  am  to  take  it,  then  —  " 

"  You  shall  take  it  as  you  please,  my  friend," 

Borso  rejoined,  with  his  chin  once  more  upon  his 

clasped  knees.     "  For  my  part  I  propose  to  take 

you  and  keep  you  under  lock  and  key  for  a  season 

—  as  at  present  advised." 

Angioletto  bowed,  as  well  as  one  may  who  is 
sitting  up  in  a  very  soft  bed.  His  voice  was 
quite  meek. 

"  I  shall  in  all  duty  obey  your  Grace's  direc- 
tions, and  will  leave  behind  me  but  one  small 
request,  which  I  am  persuaded  Borso  d'Este  will 
not  refuse  his  prisoner." 

"  And  what  is  that,  my  good  friend  ? " 

"  It  is  the  care  for  the  person  and  honour  of 
my  wife,  my  lord  Duke,"  answered  Angioletto. 

This  set  Borso  rubbing  his  nose.  He  thought 
before  he  spoke  again. 

"  As  for  your  wife's  person,  my  man,"  said  he, 
"  it  will  be  as  safe  in  my  dominions  as  all  persons, 
whatever  their  ages  or  conditions.  Her  honour 
is  another  affair.  That  is  neither  for  me  nor  my 
laws,  but  for  herself.  And  perhaps  you  will  let 
me  add  that  if  to-night  is  a  sample  of  her  course 
of  living,  you  are  putting  upon  me  a  rather  oner- 
ous charge." 


332  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

"  My  Lord,  my  Lord,"  cried  Angioletto  here, 
"  I  will  answer  for  my  wife's  honour  with  my  last 
drop  of  blood.  It  is  her  person  I  cannot  answer 
for  if  I  am  in  prison." 

"  I  have  told  you  that  I  will  answer  for  her 
person,  master  poet.  I  would  much  rather  leave 
her  honour  to  you  and  your  drops  of  blood.  So 
you  may  go  to  the  Castle  with  a  clear  mind.  To 
the  Castle,  moreover,  you  shall  undoubtedly  go, 
if  it  is  only  to  teach  you  that  the  possession  of  a 
wife  is  no  passport  to  other  men's  chimneys. 
First,  however,  I  will  ask  you  to  do  me  a  small 
service,  which  is  to  go  to  my  bedchamber  and 
send  me  my  gentlemen,  my  dresser,  and  my 
clothes.  I  am,  you  perceive,  entirely  at  your 
mercy.  You  will  follow  these  persons  back  to 
me  here,  and  will  then  give  yourself  up  as  I  shall 
direct.'^ 

Angioletto,  out  of  bed  by  this  time,  knelt  to 
the  Duke's  hand. 

"  I  am  your  Grace's  servant,"  said  he.  He 
hastily  dressed  himself  and  went  about  the  busi- 
ness he  was  bidden  on. 

"  Madam  the  Virgin,"  said  Borso,  with  a  half- 
laugh,  "  that  is  a  fine  young  man !  If  he  had 
not  made  so  free  with  my  chimneys  I  would 
advance  him.  Advanced  he  shall  be  ! "  he  cried 
out  after  a  while.  "  Zounds !  has  not  Guarino 
made  free  with  his  wife  ?  Eh,  but  I  fear  it." 
He  shook  his  nightcap  at  the  thought.  "  A 
couple  of  days'  reflection  in  a  half  light  will  do 
the  lad  no  harm.  He'll  dream  of  his  wife,  or 
compose  me  some  songs.  Bellaroba,  he  called 
her.      I   remember   the   jade  —  a   demure,  rosy- 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  BORSO  333 

cheeked  little  cat,  for  ever  twiddling  her  fingers 
or  her  apron-ends.  Those  sleek  ones  are  the 
worst.  Poor  boy !  I'll  advance  him.  He  shall 
be  librarian,  go  secretary  to  Rome  or  Florence. 
I'll  have  him  about  my  own  person.  By  the  Sons 
of  Heaven,  but  he's  as  good  as  gold !  Ah,  I  hear 
him." 

The  Duke's  gentlemen  bowed  themselves  into 
the  room,  followed  by  the  dresser. 

"  Good  morning,  my  friends,"  said  Borso.  "  But 
where  is  my  messenger  ? " 

"  Magnificence,  he  is  at  the  door,"  said  the 
usher. 

"  Bring  him  in,  Foppa,  bring  him  in,"  cried  the 
Duke ;  "  we  know  each  other  by  now." 

Angioletto  was  introduced. 

"  Master  Angioletto,"  the  twinkling  old  tyrant 
said,  "  get  you  downstairs  to  the  Captain  of  the 
Archers.  Say  to  him  as  follows :  '  Captain,  my 
lord  the  Duke  begs  you  to  conduct  me  surely  to 
the  Castle,  and  keep  me  prisoner  there  during  his 
Grace's  pleasure.'     Will  you  oblige  me  so  far  ?  " 

"  I  shall  obey  you  exactly,  my  lord  Duke,"  said 
Angioletto,  making  a  reverence. 

He  went  at  once  and  gave  himself  up.  In 
some  quarter  of  an  hour's  time  he  was  lodged  in 
the  Castle,  in  a  cell  upon  the  level  of  the  moat. 
Next  door  to  him  on  either  side  (though  he  knew 
nothing  of  it)  were  two  women  who  had  been 
brought  in  with  a  page-boy  overnight  upon  a 
charge  of  murder.  Their  case,  indeed,  was  one 
of  the  first  matters  which  engaged  the  attention 
of  Duke  Borso  after  mass. 


X 

ORDEAL    BY    ROPE 

The  prison  chills  made  Olimpia  shiver,  the 
prison  silences  made  her  afraid.  The  wavering 
moan  of  the  page-boy,  who  had  been  tumbled  on 
to  a  straw  bed  after  his  first  bout  of  the  question, 
drove  home  the  reality  of  her  situation,  and  made 
her  sick.  Olimpia  was  one  of  your  snug,  pretty 
women ;  she  loved  to  be  warmed,  coaxed,  petted ; 
liked  her  bed,  her  fire ;  liked  sweetmeats,  and  to 
see  people  about  her  go  smiling.  Mostly,  too, 
she  had  had  her  way  in  these  matters,  for  she  was 
a  beautiful  creature,  smooth  and  handsome  as  a 
Persian  cat.  Jealousy,  on  this  account,  was  a 
new  experience ;  she  had  never  suffered  it  before, 
did  not  realise  it  now.  Besides,  it  was  over;  she 
had  killed  her  faithless  lover.  But  the  dark,  the 
cold,  the  silence,  the  calm  enmity  of  the  dim  walls 
—  these  were  but  an  intensification  of  familiar 
discomforts.  She  had  always  been  afraid  of  the 
dark,  often  cold,  often  quelled  by  quiet,  made  sul- 
len by  indifference.  She  hated  all  this,  and  felt 
it  all,  in  spite  of  the  glory  of  the  Captain's  killing. 
It  seemed  more  awful  now,  more  unendurable 
than  ever,  because  —  she  knew  there  was  no  good 
disguising  it  —  because  it  stood  for  something 
else.  Ah,  ah !  she  was  in  danger.  So  sure  as 
she  thought  of  this,  Olimpia's  heart  stood  still, 
and  then  suddenly  throbbed  as  if  it  must  break. 

334 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  BORSO  335 

It  surged  up  into  her  throat.  Her  tongue  clove 
to  her  palate,  she  felt  the  bristling  of  her  flesh, 
could  hear  her  heart  quite  loud  making  double 
knocks  at  her  side.  The  page-boy  moaned  to 
himself  through  it  all;  a  rat  hidden  somewhere 
bore  him  company  by  scratching  most  diligently 
at  the  brickwork.  She  could  not  hear  anything 
of  Bellaroba  —  the  only  familiar  thing  in  this  vast 
black  horror.  The  panic  gained  upon  her  till 
her  head  swam  in  it.  She  could  not  die !  Ah, 
never,  never,  never,  by  Christ  on  His  throne ! 

The  sickening  futility  of  that  final  word,  Never, 
in  the  face  of  the  dead  certainty  announced  by 
the  inexorable  walls,  served  to  make  the  wretch's 
case  the  more  desperate.  Panic,  chalk-white, 
staring  panic-fear,  swallowed  her  up:  the  next 
few  hours  flew  by  as  minutes,  while  she  was  cow- 
ering and  gibbering  in  a  corner.  Before  the  in- 
evitable you  either  resign  or  rave  yourself  mad  — 
there  is  no  middle  course.  Bellaroba  took  the 
first.  Sitting  in  her  cell  with  her  cheek  pressed 
against  the  wall  which  (though  she  knew  it  not) 
penned  also  her  Angioletto,  she  never  opened  her 
eyes,  nor  cried,  nor  moaned ;  but  where  she  set- 
tled herself  at  her  entry  there  she  was  found  when 
they  came  to  hale  her  to  the  judgment.  She 
gave  no  trouble,  made  no  sign ;  but  she  let  down 
her  hair  to  cover  her  bare  neck,  and  if  she  blushed 
it  was  that  folks  should  see  her  blood-smirched 
evening  finery  by  the  light  of  day.  She  was  a 
very  decent  girl  always,  and  this  seemed  to  her 
horrible  even  in  a  pit  of  horrors.  Olimpia,  cling- 
ing to  life,  was  driven  upon  the  second  course. 
It  took  two  halberdiers  to  hold  her  up. 


336  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF  ITALY 

Borso  had  before  him  the  deposition  of  the 
page-boy  and  the  report  of  the  watch.  From  the 
words  of  the  first  he  suspected  that  both  women 
were  concerned  —  until  he  had  heard  the  second. 
This  was  to  the  effect  that  the  Captain's  head 
had  been  cut  off. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Borso  to  himself,  "  I  am  heartily 
sorry  for  my  young  friend  the  chimney-sweeping 
poet,  but  I  can't  think  him  a  fool.  He  would 
never  have  married  a  woman  who  could  cut  off  a 
man's  head.  Yet  stay!  It  may  be  that  she 
floored  the  Captain  and  that  the  other  rounded 
off  the  job  with  that  gratuitous  touch.  She  — 
that  other  —  was  eating  walnuts  when  the  watch 
came,  I  gather.  She  could  have  cut  a  dead  man's 
head  off,  never  doubt  it.  Well,  let  us  see,  let  us 
see." 

Then  it  was  that  he  gave  the  order :  "  Bring 
the  two  women  before  me." 

He  did  justice  ever  in  the  open.  A  broad 
green  field  outside  one  of  the  gates  served  him 
for  court.  Two  gibbets  and  an  open  pit  stood 
for  the  terror  of  the  law;  he  himself,  on  a  gilt 
chair  under  a  canopy,  for  the  majesty  of  it.  The 
day  was  bright,  breezy,  and  white-clouded.  The 
poplars  twinkled  innumerably,  the  long  Este  gon- 
falon flacked  and  strained  in  the  wind.  Specta- 
tors with  soldiery  to  hedge  them  kept  a  wide 
square  about  the  plain.  From  their  side  the 
figures  in  the  midst  —  the  red,  gold,  and  white 
about  the  pavilion,  the  steel  of  the  soldiers,  the 
drooping  women  between  them  —  were  about  as 
real  as  a  handful  of  marionettes.  It  seemed  im- 
possible such  puppets  could  decide  issues  of  life 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  337 

and  death.     But  the  red  hangman  and  his  ma- 
chines were  grim  touches  for  a  puppet-show. 

Olimpia  Castaneve  was  brought  forward  first. 
She  was  more  composed  by  now  —  the  air,  the 
sun,  the  cheerful  colours  of  the  court  had  warmed 
her.  She  stood  alone  facing  Borso.  He,  at  first 
glance,  remembered  every  shred  of  her;  but  he 
betrayed  nothing.  There  was  no  one  more 
blankly  cool  in  this  world  than  Borso  on  the 
judgment-seat. 

"  What  is  your  name,  mistress  ?  " 

"  Magnificence,  I  am  well  known  in  Fer- 
rara." 

"  Your  name,"  thundered  the  Duke,  "  by  the 
face  of  the  sky !  " 

"  Olimpia  Castaneve." 

"  Did  you  cut  off  the  head  of  the  Captain  of 
Lances,  who  was  called  II  Mosca  ?  " 

Olimpia  was  looking  very  handsome,  and  knew 
it. 

"  Magnificence,"  she  said,  "  my  hand  is  on  my 
heart."     It  was. 

"  What  the  devil  has  that  got  to  do  with  it  ? ' 
asked  Borso,  looking  about  him  for  a  reason. 

"  Serenity,  if  my  heart  were  guilty,  it  would 
burn  my  hand.  If  my  hand  were  red,  it  would 
soil  my  heart." 

"  Pouf !  "  said  Borso,  and  puckered  his  face. 
"  Stand  back,  Castaneve.  Now  for  the  little  one. 
How  are  you  called,  baggage  ?  " 

Bellaroba  shivered  a  very  little,  and  looked 
solemn. 

"  Bellaroba,  my  lord." 

"  Very  pretty ;  but  I  must  have  more." 


338  LITTLE   NOVELS   OF   ITALY 

"There  is  no  more,  my  lord.  I  am  wife  of 
Angioletto." 

"  Well,  well.  I  know  Master  Angioletto,  and 
he  me.  We'll  have  him  here,  I  think.  Hi,  you  ! " 
said  he,  turning  to  an  officer  of  his  guards.  "  Go 
and  fetch  the  chimney-sweep." 

Ten  minutes  passed ;  then  Angioletto  came  up 
between  a  detachment  of  men,  unbound.  He 
was  not  observed  to  falter  throughout  his  course 
over  the  broad  field;  but  his  eyes  were  fever 
bright,  and  colour  noticeably  high.  Bellaroba 
did  not  look  up  at  him ;  her  eyelids  fluttered,  but 
she  kept  her  head  hung,  and  as  for  her  blushes 
they  were  curtained  by  her  long  hair.  He,  on 
the  contrary,  directly  he  had  bent  his  knee  to  the 
Duke,  turned  to  where  she  stood,  and,  in  face  of 
the  whole  city,  put  his  arms  about  her,  and  found 
a  way  to  kiss  her  cheek.  The  broad  ring  of  on- 
lookers wavered ;  the  twitches  played  like  summer 
lightning  over  Borso's  face. 

"  Come  here,  Angioletto,"  he  said.  Angioletto 
drew  near  the  throne. 

"  You  see  now,  my  friend,"  the  Duke  continued 
in  a  low  voice,  "  what  may  happen  to  one's  wife 
if  she  keeps  not  her  bed  o'  nights.  A  certain 
Captain  Mosca  has  been  stabbed.  More  than 
that,  his  head  was  attacked  when  he  had  ceased 
to  take  any  interest  in  it,  and  cut  off.  I  ask  no 
words  from  you,  no  comments,  no  adjurations,  for 
you  are  a  prejudiced  party.  Your  wife  and  this 
other  woman  between  them  have  done  the  Cap- 
tain's business.  Mine  is  to  find  out  how.  Stand 
aside  now  and  listen." 

Angioletto  started,  opened  his  mouth  to  speak 


THE   JUDGMENT  OF  BORSO  339 

—  but  the  Duke  put  up  his  hand.  "  Young  man," 
said  he  sternly,  "  I  am  Duke  of  Ferrara,  and  you 
are  my  prisoner.  Be  good  enough  to  remember 
that." 

Angioletto  hung  his  head.    Borso  turned  again 
to  Bellaroba,  but  kept  the  other  in  his  eye. 

"  Now,  missy,  what  had  you  to  do  with  Captain 
Mosca's  headpiece  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  my  lord." 

"  What !  "  he  roared.   "  Did  you  not  cut  it  off?" 

"  No,  my  lord." 

"  Why  not,  girl  ?     He  was  your  enemy,  I  sup- 
pose  r 

"  I  think  he  was,  my  lord." 

"  Think  !     Do  you  not  know  it?     What  did  he 
want  of  you  ?  " 

"  He  wanted  to  make  me  bad,  my  lord." 

"  Ah  !     So  you  stabbed  him,  eh  ?  " 

"  No,  my  lord." 

"  Come  now,  come  now,  girl.     Look  at  your 
frock." 

She  did  look  and  was  silent. 

"  Well !  "  Borso  continued,  after  a  sharp  glance 
at  Angioletto.     "  Did  your  husband  cut  it  off  ? ' 

"  No,  my  lord,  he  wasn't  there  —  but  —  " 

"Well  — but  what?" 

"He  would  have  killed  him,  my  lord." 

"  Oh,  the  devil  he  would  !     Why  ?  " 

"  Because  he  loves  me,  my  lord." 

"  H'm.     Well,    Miss    Bellaroba,   where's   your 
hand  ?  " 

She  held  it  out.     "  Here,  sir." 

"  What  a  little  one !    Well,  put  it  on  your  heart. 
Now,  how  does  it  feel  ?  " 


340  LITTLE   NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

"  It  jumps,  my  lord." 

"  Does  it  burn  you,  child  ?  " 

"  No,  my  lord ;  it's  quite  cold." 

"  Stand  down,  Bellaroba.  Castaneve,  come  for- 
ward." 

His  face  just  now  was  a  sight  to  be  seen — * 
crumpled,  infinitely  prim,  crow-footed  like  an 
ivied  wall ;  but  extraordinarily  wise ;  with  that 
tempered  resolve  which  says,  "  I  know  Evil  and  I 
know  Good,  and  dare  be  just  to  either."  He  was 
thinking  profoundly;  every  one  could  see  it. 
Best  of  the  company  before  him  Angioletto,  the 
little  Tuscan,  read  his  thought.  His  own  was, 
"  Unless  I  fear  Justice  I  need  not  fear  Borso. 
Dante  saw  the  death  of  his  lady  to  be  just. 
Courage  then  !  " 

"  Mistress  Castaneve,"  said  Duke  Borso,  "  you 
declare  yourself  innocent  ?  " 

"  Excellency,  I  do,  I  do  !  Ah,  Mother  of  God ! " 
The  panic  was  creeping  up  Olimpia's  legs,  to 
loosen  the  joints  of  her  knees. 

The  Judge  turned  half.  "  Mistress  Bellaroba, 
you  also  declare  yourself  innocent  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  lord,"  she  said. 

"  Diavolo  !  "  muttered  Angioletto,  "  he  is  not 
'  my  lord ' ;  he  is  '  Magnificence.'  I  must  scold 
her  for  this  afterwards." 

"  The  position  of  affairs  is  this,"  said  the  Duke 
aloud.  "  One  of  these  prisoners  is  guilty  of  the 
deed,  and  the  guilty  one  is  the  liar.  Now,  I  will 
not  put  an  innocent  person  to  death  if  I  can 
avoid  it ;  and  I  will  not  put  these  women  to  the 
question,  because  I  should  wring  a  confession  of 
guilt  from  each,  and  be  no  more  certain  than  I 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   BORSO  341 

was  before.  I  may  have  my  own  opinion,  and  may 
have  proved  it  on  various  grounds.  That,  again, 
I  do  not  care  to  obtrude.  I  do  not  see  that  I  can 
better  the  precedent  set  me  by  a  very  wise  man 
and  patriarch,  King  Solomon  of  Zion.  Let  the 
women  judge  each  other.  My  judgment  is  that 
the  innocent  of  these  two  shall  hang  the  guilty." 

The  bystanders  were  silent,  till  one  man 
shivered.  The  shiver  swept  lightly  through  the 
company  like  a  wind  in  the  reeds,  and  ran  wider 
and  wider  till  it  stirred  the  farthest  edge  of  the 
field.  All  eyes  were  upon  the  prisoners.  Borso's 
blinked  from  below  his  shaggy  brows,  young 
Teofilo  Calcagnini's  were  misty,  Angioletto's 
hard  and  bright.  Bellaroba  had  been  motionless 
throughout,  except  when  her  lips  moved  to  speak ; 
she  was  motionless  now.  But  Olimpia  was  pant- 
ing. The  unearthly  quiet  was  only  broken  by 
that  short  sound  for  ten  minutes. 

"  Bellaroba,"  then  said  the  Duke,  "  what  say 
you  ?  You  declare  that  you  are  innocent.  Will 
you  hang  the  guilty  and  go  free  ?  " 

For  the  first  time  she  looked  up,  but  not  at  her 
judge.  It  was  at  Angioletto  she  looked,  Angio- 
letto  at  her. 

"  No,  my  lord,  I  cannot,"  said  Bellaroba  in  the 
hush.  The  wind  shivered  the  reeds  again,  then 
fainted  down. 

"  Castaneve,"  said  the  dry  voice,  "  what  say  you  ? 
You  declare  that  you  are  innocent.  Will  you 
hang  the  guilty  and  go  free  ?  " 

The  drowning  Olimpia  threw  up  her  hands  to 
clutch  at  this  plank  in  the  sea-swirl.  Free !  O 
God!    The  word  turned  her. 


342  LITTLE  NOVELS  OF   ITALY 

"  Magnificence,  I  must,  I  must,  I  must !  "  She 
wailed,  and  fell  a  heap  to  the  ground.  Bellaroba 
covered  her  eyes.  Teofilo  Calcagnini  shook  the 
tears  from  his.  Borso  sat  on  immovably,  working 
his  jaws. 

It  is  at  this  point  that  the  conduct  of  Angio- 
letto  touches  the  sublime  —  a  position  never  ac- 
corded by  posterity  to  his  verse.  It  proves  him, 
nevertheless,  the  greater  artist  to  this  extent,  that 
he  was  equally  the  slave  of  the  Idea,  though  work- 
ing in  more  intractable  stuff:  himself,  namely; 
his  own  little  heart  throbbing  in  his  own  young 
body.  Therefore  he  deserves  well  of  posterity, 
which  finds  his  verses  thin.  Said  Angioletto: 
"  Yes,  Bellaroba  is  my  adorable  wife,  loved  be- 
yond all  women,  deserving  beyond  all  price.  Yet 
if  she  killed  the  Captain  she  is  guilty  of  death, 
and  the  sentence  is  just  whoever  perform  it. 
And  if,  being  guiltless,  she  is  hanged  by  the 
guilty,  the  action  will  glorify  her;  for  it  is  the 
price  she  pays  for  clean  hands." 

Then,  in  the  midst  of  that  waiting  assembly,  he 
called  the  girl  to  him  by  her  name,  took  her  face 
in  both  his  hands  and  kissed  it  very  tenderly, 
smiling  all  the  time  through  his  quick  tears. 

"  My  dear  little  heart,"  said  he,  "  your  husband 
is  proud  of  you.  All  that  you  have  done  is  admir- 
able in  this  black  business.  In  a  very  short  time 
I  shall  see  you  again.  Though  it  is  a  higher 
flight  than  the  Schifanoia  chimney,  it  is  quicker 
done.  Trust  me,  Bellaroba;  you  know  I  have 
never  failed  you  yet." 

He  could  say  no  more,  but  took  her  in  his 
arms   and  held  her  there,  speechless  as  he  was 


THE  JUDGMENT   OF   BORSO  343 

with  inspiration.  She,  seeming  to  burn  in  the 
fire  that  consumed  him,  lay  quite  still,  neither 
sobbing  any  more,  nor  shivering.  So  they  clung 
together  for  a  little.  Then  Angioletto  lifted  up 
his  face  from  her  cheek,  and  put  her  gently  away 
from  him. 

"  Let  justice  be  done,  Excellency,"  he  called  out 
in  his  shrill  boy's  voice,  "  we  have  said  our  say  to 
each  other." 

Borso  spoke. 

"  Justice  shall  be  done.  The  innocent  has  con- 
demned the  guilty:  let  that  woman  be  hanged. 
We  have  learned  the  value  of  clean  hands  this 
day.  Mistress  Bellaroba,  you  have  a  man  in  ten 
thousand ;  Angioletto,  my  friend,  you  have  what 
you  deserve,  a  woman  in  ten  million.  It  is  not 
fair  that  the  worth  of  you  two  should  be  known 
only  to  me  and  the  Blessed  Virgin  ;  you  shall  tell 
it  now  to  a  priest.  Come  along,  and  let  me  have 
the  whole  story  with  my  breakfast." 

Thus  Duke  Borso  did  judgment  for  his  good 
town  of  Ferrara  in  times  very  remote  from  our 
own.  The  Ferrarese  used  to  say  that  it  needs 
a  sound  lawyer  to  know  how  to  break  the  laws. 


THE    END 


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